


Presence

by kakikaeru



Series: the kindness of strangers [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dalai Lama AU, Epistolary, Historical Inaccuracy, Holy Man Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Mentions of War, PTSD, Reporter Victor Nikiforov, World's Most Surprised Wing Man Christophe Giacometti, a little something different, a little something experimental, how to be brave, i bet you never thought you'd see that but here we are, mentions of mistreatment, please don't @ me I am trying my best, religious inaccuracy, this fic brought to you by the kindness of strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakikaeru/pseuds/kakikaeru
Summary: Atop his platform the Kuninotokotachi smiled, raised hands that were white and clean. He spoke clearly and evenly in his own flowing language, giving benediction and reassurance to the camp of refugees that had been accumulating in this village in Calabria in the last four years. Victor didn't know Japanese, didn't understand what was spoken, but the soft voice washed over him like a river, seemed responsible for the gentle breeze that blew into the proceedings and disrupted the intentions of the merciless sun. A young man in blue under a white umbrella, with his eyes shining, and a smile in his words.Christophe tugged on his elbow. "Did you hear me, Victor?""Mm?" Victor shook his head, trying to clear it."I asked if you were ready to meet him."Victor Nikiforov, reporter for the New York Times, goes to Italy to interview a shinto priest in exile, and makes a friend.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: the kindness of strangers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591537
Comments: 95
Kudos: 154





	Presence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by tumblr user vertigosight/awritingpen, who generously donated $35 to GLAAD in my Charity Tumblrathon this year. Darling, if you're reading this, please comment so I can gift it to you properly! Thank you so much, for doing your bit of good.

"He looks remarkably upbeat, considering."

Christophe glared over the circular, golden rims of his spectacles, his dark brows pulled down.

"Don't embarrass me, Victor," he said flatly.

Victor spread his hands with an easy smile, one Christophe did not buy. He was well versed in the value of Victor's smiles.

"He's my _friend_ ," Christophe continued, "and I let you come as a favour. Aren't you supposed to be a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist? Are you always this cavalier when you march into a war zone?"

Victor had folded his arms, and he tapped the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep. He did not like to speak about the war.

"Part of my job is making observations," he said calmly, looking past Christophe to the hastily erected dais in the centre of the field. A young man was picking his way through the crowd around it, careful of his wooden sandals in the rutted, dried mud, pressing his hand gently to shoulders and bowed heads as he passed. A smaller boy fluttered beside him, keeping a large paper umbrella aloft to shield the man from the harshness of the Italian afternoon sun. Both wore similar robes of blue silk, though the man's was much more ornate, made up of several more layers. The weight of his clothes appeared not to hinder him; he smiled softly and spoke quiet words, each step placed with delicate purpose. There was a certain beauty to it, Victor supposed. Together with his blue robe and the shade cast by his white umbrella, he appeared like a cool oasis in the bleached grass and shimmering heat. Perhaps that was what it meant to be holy.

Christophe had gone back to ignoring Victor in favour of taking photographs. For now they were tucked back with the rest of the foreign press, grumbling in the scant shade of a few fig trees. Victor had packed gum boots and a Mackintosh for rain; his editor had neglected to tell him that Southern Italy in April was akin to being in the Sahara. His body was built for bitter cold and had come from the icy slush of Brooklyn, he'd taken to wearing a large brimmed straw hat to protect his fair hair, extremely pale skin, and crisp blue eyes from the blazing sun. Victor tapped his lip, squinting, already spinning an elegant paragraph on the differences one experienced, being mortal. He snapped a few photographs of his own, so he would remember.

"Tell me about him, again."

Chris sighed, running a hand through the cropped blonde curls on the top of his head. It was madness to walk about in this heat without a hat, but Christophe possessed just that sort of vanity.

"I haven't spoken to him in person in many years," Chris reminded him. "Not since before the war. I just know what he was like, and how he sounds in his letters."

"Still. You’re the only European person who’s ever spoken to him outside of diplomacy. That makes you an expert by default."

Chris grumbled in Swiss German, a dialect too convoluted for Victor to understand. He'd been endeavouring, in the last few years, to forget as much German as possible.

"He's shy," Chris said, switching back to French. "But, very intelligent, very curious. He becomes very enthusiastic when confronted by new things, and - and I think he's very determined. For his people."

Victor tapped his lip again, watching as the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , God Founder of the Nation, climbed the few shoddy steps of the platform erected in his honour, to offer his blessing to the crowd. Sunlight glinted off the lenses of his surprisingly modern glasses, stinging across the field of Victor's vision. When he closed his eyes, the outline of His Holiness, _Sonzaikan_ _Katsuki_ _Yuuri-sama_ , was burned into his mind, a prophet in the holy land.

Three days ago, the _Kuninotokotachi_ had been forced to flee his home, escorted in secret from the palace where he lived. He'd just come straight from a harrowing, choppy flight in an Albatross, huddled in the cargo hold with more people than the plane could reasonably carry, and requiring them to make an emergency landing in Thailand for more fuel. Under a similar sort of stress Victor would, and had, been a near blubbering mess - dirty, disoriented, grieving. But atop his platform the _Kuninotokotachi_ smiled, raised hands that were white and clean. He spoke clearly and evenly in his own flowing language, giving benediction and reassurance to the camp of refugees that had been accumulating in this village in Calabria in the last four years. Victor didn't know Japanese, didn't understand what was spoken, but the soft voice washed over him like a river, seemed responsible for the gentle breeze that blew into the proceedings and disrupted the intentions of the merciless sun. A young man in blue under a white umbrella, with his eyes shining, and a smile in his words.

Christophe tugged on his elbow. "Did you hear me, Victor?"

"Mm?" Victor shook his head, trying to clear it. The _Kuninotokotachi_ was leaving the dais, flanked by his small entourage of monks and family members. Christophe smiled in what almost looked like understanding.

"I asked if you were ready to meet him."

At first, Victor believed that perhaps Christophe had greatly exaggerated his friendship when they were lined up outside with all the other reporters, in order of the prestige of their publication. It was less that twenty minutes though, before one of the administrators at the camp pulled them both from the line and showed them into a small white room, outfitted with scant furniture, and asked them to wait. Christophe opened the door when a soft knock rapped outside, surprising the boy on the other side. It was the same boy who had so diligently and proudly carried the umbrella, this time clutching a tray bearing fragrant iced coffee and glasses. He squeaked at the tall European looming over him, and asked for Christophe in heavily accented French.

"You've found him," Chris smiled, rearranging his posture into something less imposing. "Are you Minami-san?"

The boy nodded, his right incisor digging into his lip as he blinked up at Chris, nearly two feet taller.

"It's very good to finally meet you, _Katsuki-sama_ writes about you often."

Something shone in the boy's dark eyes, pride puffing out his chest. He bowed very deeply over the tea tray. "Thank you Giacometti-san!" His little voice boomed into the floor. "This one has been sent by _Sonzaikan-sama_ to give you his greetings, and to ask if you would wait while he freshens up and speaks to the press."

"I humbly accept the greetings," Chris smiled, "and it is no trouble to wait. May I take that coffee from you?"

Minami-san surrendered the tray with another bow and scampered off to deliver Chris' message. Victor leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. The room was much cooler, and the glass of coffee Chris poured for him was deliciously chilled. He took out a notebook and scratched out as much of his thoughts as he could remember, twirling his pencil occasionally around his thumb.

"How old was Katsuki when you met him?"

"You probably shouldn't call him that unless he gives you permission," Chris said over the rim of his own glass. He'd pulled a fan from somewhere on his person, and was airing out the heated skin beneath his opened collar with slow snaps of his wrist.

"Fine. How old was _Sonzaikan-sama_ when you met him?"

"He was twelve. And I was fifteen already, his birthday is late in the year."

Victor's lip quirked up in one corner. "Oh? Do you send him a birthday card every year?"

"Victor."

"It's an honest question!"

"I think," Chris said slowly, setting his coffee and his fan on the table, "that we should set a few ground rules before you meet him. Or I will ask the kind Italian fellows with the guns outside to escort you back to your place in the news line."

"Chris." Victor set a hand on his own chest in mock affront. "You can't honestly think that I won't be professional."

"I know you will, but he's not just another politician for you to dissect, or diplomat for you to bait with questions. He's a person, a very dear person to me, who's just gone through quite a lot. I haven't seen him in ten years, please don't make me regret introducing you."

Victor gave Chris a dark look. "Do you think I will embarrass you? That's a bit rich coming from the man who stumbled upon a boy-god in the bath-"

" _Victor_."

Victor threw up his hands and tossed his notebook across the room; it landed with a sharp thwack on the table beside Christophe's fan. "I have all the questions my editor wants me to ask in there. Why don't you read it and cross out any you dislike?" He stood with a grimace and wiped his hands on his trousers. "I'm going out for a cigarette."

It took three cigarettes, an untold length of weighted silence before Chris returned his notebook, and nineteen games of gin rummy before Minami-san knocked on the door again. Victor followed two steps behind Chris, attempting to straighten both his hair and his tie as they walked through the complex behind Minami-san. It had grown dark in the time they had been waiting, and a few women were lighting lanterns outside.

Minami-san stopped outside a heavy door, face half-shadowed in the failing light. He rapped twice, hard, looking like the action was foreign to him, before opening the door approximately two inches. A soft murmur floated through, and Minami-san bowed to the door.

"Please remove your shoes," he asked, stepping out of his sandals. He waited and very patiently did not watch while they both struggled out of their oxfords. Only once they were all in their stocking feet did he open the door the whole way, and stepped through with Christophe and Victor behind him.

The 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , God Founder of the Nation, His Holiness, _Sonzaikan_ _Katsuki_ _Yuuri-sama_ , stood up from the small table at which he had been presumably writing, given the papers scattered across it. There were the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, and he had shed several layers of his garment, making him seem a little smaller, a little more fragile. His skin was very pale, like the smooth ivory keys of a piano, set in contrast by the polished ebony of his short hair. Victor thought briefly that perhaps the young man was a little ill, until a wide, unhindered smile broke across his face.

"Chris," _Sonzaikan_ beamed, illuminated like the candles set about the room. He said something in Japanese, which Minami-san dutifully translated into French.

"How are you, my friend?"

"Oh no," Chris smiled, sounding a little choked up. "My friend, how are you?"

It dimmed his smile a little, but _Sonzaikan_ came forwards in his stocking feet, steps small and softly susurrant, and pressed his palm to Christophe's left breast.

"I am always well, in the presence of a friend," he said softly, relayed by Minami-san. "Always well, when we can meet."

Chris sniffed a little, he bowed his head and _Sonzaikan_ placed his other hand in a careful cradle of the crown of Christophe's curls. He murmured softly in Japanese, a blessing Minami-san did not translate.

"Thank you," Chris whispered when it was finished. _Sonzaikan_ smiled fondly and patted Christophe's chest before gathering his hands into his wide sleeves. He looked inquisitively in Victor's direction, waiting with a polite smile. His eyes were very large and dark, possibly amplified by his glasses.

"Please let me introduce you to Victor Nikiforov, the friend I wrote to you about," Chris said, which surprised Victor a little. He hadn’t known he was part of their correspondence.

"Greetings to you, Nikiforov-san." _Sonzaikan_ kept his polite smile as he said it, and Minami-san bowed as he translated. Victor had been briefed by both the consulate and Christophe, he knew enough that he was supposed to bow for this part. The _Kuninotokotachi_ did not touch him, but held his hand aloft as he spoke a shorter blessing for Victor. It was fortunate his head was lowered, no one saw his wry smile save the floorboards.

"Mr. Nikiforov is a correspondent for the New York Times," Chris said. "He's-"

" _American?!_ " Minami-san cut in incredulously. His face had gone red, fists clutching the edges of his sleeves in anger. He stared at Victor as though Victor had suddenly transformed into a demon who had personally come to cut his head off.

"No," Victor promised, hands out placatingly. "Not American. Soviet."

"You work in America," Minami-san pressed, his accented French spat through gritted teeth. He had apparently given up on translating. "You live in America."

"Minami-kun."

The _Kuninotokotachi_ 's face was troubled, but understanding. He reached out to touch his fingertips to the boy's shoulder, speaking softly. It appeared he was trying to convince Minami-san of something, and given the repeated looks the boy darted towards Victor, it was definitely about him. Victor tried not to fidget and wished he still had his shoes on.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," Minami-san said finally, bowing deeply. He excused himself by backing out of the room, remaining hunched over.

"I am sorry," _Sonzaikan_ sighed, softly-accented English spoken once the door had closed on his apprentice. "He is young."

"You speak English," Victor blurted, too surprised to be tactful or give his words the proper respect.

"I do." An impish grin flashed across _Sonzaikan_ 's face, briefly lighting up his large dark eyes. "Please keep it a secret." He reached out to press two fingers to Christophe's elbow, and then turned to walk back to the table. He began gathering up his papers while Chris motioned to Victor that they should seat themselves amongst the cushions arranged on the carpet in the corner.

"My English is not perfect," _Sonzaikan_ continued, as he swept one hand under his shins, seating himself on the carpet balanced on his knees. He looked like a neatly wrapped package, folded elegantly in on himself. "And it is not the easiest language for Chris."

"So sweet to me," Chris grinned, leaning against a cushion, one leg propped up, and the other sprawled alongside it. "The French you do know you speak very well."

"The French I speak you taught me," _Sonzaikan_ smiled indulgently, "and I have since learned it is not fit for company."

Victor froze with his hands on his knees, cross-legged on the carpet, entirely aware that he was an outsider to their friendship. He raised his eyebrow at Chris in silent questioning while the _Kuninotokotachi_ busied himself with pouring them all a drink. Chris ignored Victor in favour of taking the glass he was offered.

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you tea," _Sonzaikan_ apologized. "There are rules for us around when tea can be drunk, and it is too late in the evening now."

"That's no trouble, thank you," Victor said, sipping from his glass. He watched the _Kuninotokotachi_ take a deep drink from his own glass, one hand resting flat underneath, and the other cupped around the base. He sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the water as though it were a fine wine.

"One cannot be unfortunate, when there is water to drink," he said softly.

Chris looked like he wanted to say something, and Victor thought he ought to get his business over with, so he could leave Chris to speak freely. It was already becoming more difficult to think of the slender man in his neat robe as some sort of holy entity, and Victor wasn't sure how long he could keep is skepticism in check.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," he began, setting down his water and reaching for his notebook in his pocket, "could I ask you a few questions?"

"Ah."

The air seemed to change, and Chris pursed his lips, the corners of his mouth pulled down, glancing at his holy friend's face.

"Would it trouble you, if I decline your request?" The _Kuninotokotachi_ 's expression was gentle, tentative. He really was asking Victor if it was all right.

"Of course not," Victor found himself saying, even as his heart started thumping in his throat. He was embarrassed at his sudden lack of conviction; Victor had faced dour politicians, unfeeling generals, and close-lipped executives, never backing down. He had a reputation for getting to the heart of a story, and that wasn't made without overstepping boundaries. But something in the slope of the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's shoulders and the earnest question in his eyes stopped Victor up short.

"Hmm," he hummed, lips curling into a small, thankful smile. "When I meditate this evening, I will extend gratitude for you, Nikiforov-san, for granting me your patience. I have spent a great deal of time today, speaking. Answering questions. It has been… I think you would call it a _trying_ day? Mm. There is a weight on my heart, and I would like to close the day in quiet companionship with friends."

"Of course," Victor said again, feeling a little angry with himself, and also with the soft-spoken _Kuninotokotachi_. "Perhaps it would be best if I left you to Christophe. I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do."

"If you wish." His head tilted, birdlike, to one side. "You are welcome to stay. Chris has written to me about you; I feel as if I know you already."

"No, that's fine." Victor refrained from snorting - whatever Chris had told this man had to be either highly embellished or egregiously false.

_Sonzaikan_ looked at him for a long moment, pinning Victor to stillness. Finally he nodded.

"Join me after breakfast tomorrow," he offered. "I will answer your questions then."

"Thank you."

Victor got roughly to his feet, bowed, and saw himself out. He had to sit on the floor in the hallway to put his shoes back on, much to the silent amusement of the Italian guard waiting outside with Victor's hat. Through the heavy door he could hear the quiet hum of conversation, murmured between old friends. As he stood to follow the guard back to the jeep that would convey him to his hotel, a burst of laughter sounded behind him through the door. The tone of it was foreign to him, like a clear peal of a glass bell. Victor pressed his lips together and stomped after the guard.

* * *

Victor was an early riser, he was first down for breakfast, granting him the best choice of pastries. The woman who prepared his coffee blushed, and her hands shook when she passed him the cup. He took his plate and his coffee to a large table by the widows, where he could spread his work out while he ate. After returning from the Japanese refugee camp, Victor had sat up late, rereading his briefing notes.

The facts of the life of the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ were not widely known, and Victor had pieced together a few diplomatic briefings and stories from Christophe. Born to humble parents in southern Japan, he was conferred at the age of two when monks searching for the 13th's successor were led to his seaside town by the portents of a dream. Katsuki Yuuri was described as a quiet and serious child, largely unafraid of the strangers who showed up at his home and presented him with several items. He'd blinked up at his mother before climbing out of her lap and reaching for the belongings of the _Kuninotokotachi_ , speaking to the monks in complicated phrases he had previously never uttered. He was immediately proclaimed as the reincarnation the God Founder of the Nation, and conveyed in a golden carriage to Kyoto, to the Fushimi Inari Taisha, where he began his formal education. At the age of 8 he was declared spiritual leader, and at the end of the war he, his family, and all of his retainers moved to Tokyo at the invitation of the American government.

The 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ was described as soft-spoken, bookish, a pacifist. It was believed by the western world that he was moldable, a youth more easily swayed than the defeated Emperor. He was currently 23 and attending college, still a student of the religion he had been born to lead. Laws passed by the Americans in Japan required both the seal of the Emperor and the blessing of the _Kuninotokotachi_ , and they had hoped that by keeping him close in Tokyo they could influence his politics. But _Sonzaikan Katsuki Yuuri-sama_ would not ratify laws that only suited foreign interest, and on the subjects of religious and cultural freedoms he would not budge. He was determined, like the founding law makers of the Meiji-era, to ensure that any advancement in Japan preserved its own identity; that the practices, behaviours and sentiments of his people were not lost beneath a wave of Western influence. He walked a knife's edge, extolling his people to cooperate peacefully with the American government, to accept change while still holding fast to their traditions. It made him dangerous, an unconscious figurehead of a rebellious movement.

Refugees from Japan began arriving in Southern Italy when the Ambassador to Japan, Celestino Cialdini, started issuing visas as tensions grew in the country. Rumours began to circulate that a plot was in motion to "rescue" the _Kuninotokotachi_ from what some saw as the house arrest of the American Government. Skirmishes broke out in the city of Tokyo, and in Kyoto, students filled the inner courtyard of the Fushimi Inari Taisha, demanding that the religious leader be returned. He issued a statement, asking once again for cooperation with American authorities and peaceful demonstration, inviting leaders of the insurgency to the palace in Tokyo to present their issues to him, in the hopes to start a dialogue towards resolution. The statement was immediately decried as a fabrication. The _Kuninotokotachi_ asked to appear before the people, and was denied the opportunity by the Americans, citing his safety, and so the religious leader did the only thing he could think of: with the help of Celestino, he organized his extraction from the country, and fled to Italy.

Victor did not know how close the young man he was meeting after breakfast had come to death, only that he seemed relatively unfazed by the ordeal. Victor jotted down notes in his notebook, keeping a running list of bullet points to bring up during his appointment. Perhaps the _Kuninotokotachi_ was secure in the knowledge that his family and friends were safe. Victor wanted to ask what his plans were; it would be impossible for him to remain in Italy unless he received some large-scale support from other nations in the west, and that was unlikely if he continued to be a thorn in the side of the Americans. It was equally unlikely that the _Kuninotokotachi_ would approach a communist power who would simply annex his country in a far worse way that the Americans would. Victor was more than aware of the dangers of trusting the Soviets. He tapped his chin in thought, his breakfast sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. It bounced uncomfortably in his gut for the entire jeep ride back to the camp.

The _Kuninotokotachi_ was once again at his desk when Victor arrived, and he waved off his attendant for the day -notably not Minami - slipping on his wooden sandals to step out into the hall.

"Will you walk with me, Nikiforov-san?" he asked. "I have been idle too long."

"I will," Victor said, "though it might be hard to take notes while I hold your umbrella."

"Oh!" _Sonzaikan_ blushed. "No, we need not bother with such a thing. It is not so hot this morning."

They walked in silence, down the hall, out a side door, and around the back of the building, heading in the direction away from camp, towards a shady wooded area. Victor realized he was unconsciously scanning the brush and made himself stop.

"The guards tell me I can wander only to the opposite edge of these trees," _Sonzaikan_ hummed, his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his blue robe. "I do not wish to make their efforts for my safety difficult, but I am not used to so little exercise."

"You dance," Victor remembered, something he had underlined in his notes.

"It's a part of my duties, yes. There are spiritual dances for many of our rites."

"How often do you dance, in rituals?"

"Ah, I rarely dance for the public. The rites are sacred, and often for the viewing of the _kami_ alone. I practice every day, however."

"I'm sorry, what is that word? Camee?

" _Kami_?" He rolled his shoulders, nose scrunching briefly in thought. "I suppose you would say God… or gods. It is the spiritual essence of our faith."

"You have more than one god?"

"In a way, yes. Different from the Hindu faith, who have many gods. Different as well from the historical examples of the Romans and Greeks. Kami is a gathering of spirit, perhaps the closest example is the worship Native Americans hold for nature."

"You seem remarkably versed in other theologies."

The _Kuninotokotachi_ smiled. "It is my duty to understand."

"And do you hope to practice your faith here, in Italy?"

"I'm afraid that would not be possible. Without a shrine, there is nothing to worship."

"What about you?"

"Me?" _Sonzaikan_ blinked. "I don't…"

"Are you not a god on earth?"

"What do you think?" _Sonzaikan_ smiled, eyes twinkling behind his glasses in mirth. "Do I seem very holy?"

Victor did not appreciate the joke. "Is that not your role?"

"Now you equate me with Jesus perhaps. I am not a god, but the continuation of an endless mortal life. I suppose the Christian Pope might be an example, though that is not my duty either.

"What is your duty then?"

"To teach," _Sonzaikan_ smiled. He shook one hand from the confines of his sleeve and took careful hold of Victor's elbow for a moment, to steer him away from a large root on the path. "To guide. 

Victor laughed a little, he opened his mouth to say something witty and fleeting, but the _Kuninotokotachi_ tucked his hand back inside his sleeve, expression turned thoughtful.

"I do not think this is what you wish to ask me," he said softly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you here to learn about my faith, Nikiforov-san? If you are, then there are deeper questions. But I don't think that is what you wish to ask me either."

"What should I ask you then?" Victor gave him his best smile. "I have a nice list in my notebook if you like."

"Oh, not that either." _Sonzaikan_ shrugged his shoulders under his heavy robe. "I am a fan of your work."

"You read the New York Times."

"I read a great many things. You published writing before you came to work for an American newspaper.

Victor pressed his lips together.

"Ah, but this is not a thing you speak of. Please excuse me."

"It's fine," Victor dismissed flatly.

"I have caused harm unintentionally. I am sorry for it."

They had paused on the path, and _Sonzaikan_ turned towards him; Victor stared at the notch in the toe of his strange socks, pressed between the strap of his sandals.

"Are those not uncomfortable?"

The _Kuninotokotachi_ laughed, light and ringing like a bell. His laugh was a surprising contrast to the gentle tones of his speaking voice. "I suppose I am used to them; I have worn the same thing almost every day, all my life. It makes getting dressed in the morning very easy!"

"I imagine so," Victor admitted. "They just seem rather strange."

"Mm. All manner of strange things can become commonplace, with enough exposure."

"That's true," Victor said quietly. Something tried to rear up in his mind, and he tugged it down with great effort, raising his face with his best smile firmly upon it. The _Kuninotokotachi_ was again looking at Victor with his head tilted to one side; in the morning sunlight, his eyes were much lighter than they had been in the candle light the evening before. They were warm, the colour shifting like a lion's mane around the dark iris.

"I would like to be very honest with you, Nikiforov-san," he said. "I was very eager, when Chris suggested I meet you. Will you help me?"

* * *

A popping, old recording, recently released from the personal archives of Christophe Giacometti:

"Your Holiness, it's an honour to meet you."

"I apologize for the circumstances. I had always hoped to meet you, Nikiforov-san, though I wish now it was for more pleasant reasons."

"Could you describe the past few days for us, Your Holiness?"

"Ah, I have left my country. Three days ago. And come here, to Italy, on the invitation of Cialdini-san, our ambassador."

"I'm told your journey was less than comfortable."

"That is no matter. I am here, along with the members of my cabinet and family. I am grateful to the Italian embassy and the personal efforts of Cialdini-san, to ensure we arrived safely."

"Your Holiness, can you tell us why you've left Japan?"

A deep sigh. "I am worried for the safety of my people. By continuing to remain under the protection of the Americans in Tokyo, I put them at risk."

"How so?"

"Mm... there is a perception that I am being held there against my will. I have received nothing but kindness from the American government currently working with the Emperor and my cabinet. I went to Tokyo at their invitation, and I would have remained there until the work of stabilizing the country was done, and the Americans returned the oversight of the country once again to the Japanese. But it is taking longer than envisioned. While I hope to always maintain an open dialogue with anyone who seeks to improve the life of my people, there are many in the country who see the... argumentative nature of the discussions as a disrespect to my person."

"But you do not?"

A small laugh. "I myself am very stubborn. It is only natural; when making important decisions, we wish to be assured we are making the right one."

"And what is the right decision for your people, your Holiness?"

"Overall, I wish for peace. We have endured enough, of violence. I wish for healing for all people, not just my own."

"Then you are opposed to the division of Germany? Of Korea?"

"I am opposed to suffering. I believe it can be difficult, after a time of great upheaval, to put aside the tools of war, but we must. If we wish to secure an enduring future, we must."

"Your Holiness, is there anything you'd like to say, to your people? If you could explain why you have left?"

"Ah..."

"I'm sorry, if that might be difficult."

"No, no. I wish to tell them that I am not gone, simply further away. It became apparent to me that my voice was not my own, and that if I was to speak for them to truly hear, and for the world to truly listen, I would have to distance myself. I wish them to know that I continue to work tirelessly for their interests, and that I hope, by bringing more attention to their struggles, I can end them faster."

"And, is there anything you'd like to say to the world at large?"

"I ask for their patience, and their understanding. This war has perhaps made the world feel smaller, people are aware of far more than their immediate surroundings. But it is my hope that this will foster a curiosity, instead of a reluctance. It can be difficult, I know, to put aside differences. We are at this time, awaking from a deep nightmare. It is natural to wish to curl in and protect ourselves. But we must be brave. We must meet each other not as adversaries, but as a brotherhood intent on the safety of all our selves."

"Given the opportunity, would you start that dialogue?"

"I would be very happy to. I should like very much to be given the opportunity to meet with the leaders of this world, and begin the process of moving forward in peace."

"Is there anything specifically that you would like to say to the American public, who will be reading this interview?"

"I ask them to remember a time in their own personal journey, where they have been wrong. It is a difficult path to walk, between awareness and acceptance, each of us treads it at a different pace, and the distance to travel can be short, or sometimes, very long. This is the path we are walking now, each of us with our own burden of shame, with our own pack on our backs, carrying all the things that make us who we are. It is a pilgrimage we are all undertaking, a journey we cannot postpone or avoid - to do so would only hold us back. But as we reach the summit, and are rewarded for our efforts, I hope the Americans will meet us there, and extend to us a hand."

"Your Holiness, thank you today, for your time."

"Thank you, Nikiforov-san, for listening."

* * *

Mr. Nikiforov,

I hope you will not mind that I asked Christophe for your personal address. I worried that correspondence delivered to your work would perhaps cause undue attention to the fact that I was writing to you, and I wish, in this at least, for my words to be solely my own. Please excuse, as well, the crudeness of my letters, it has been some time since I have written roman characters by hand.

I wanted to thank you, for the piece you wrote for the New York Times, a piece which I understand has been reprinted in many western newspapers, as well as translated into many languages for foreign publication, including my home of Japan. I read it with great interest, and was humbled by the picture you painted of me. I am a simple shinto priest, not at all the great hero you make me out to be. But my observations on myself aside, your work was detailed, exceptionally researched. I could not have asked for a gentler hand to hold the hopes and fears of my people, or a more thoughtful mind to speak of them; you laid everything out in such eloquent detail, unbiased and impartial, in a way I could never express because of my position. I am indebted to you, for presenting both sides of this non-argument so well.

I have recently been invited by the United Nations to attend a summit in Geneva this coming February, where I will speak to the gathered leaders of the free world. I can only assume this invitation has come on the heels of the current popularity I enjoy in the western psyche, and is thus because of you. If you will allow this humble monk to speak of things you do not enjoy, I have prayed often, since meeting you, for your happiness and good fortune; I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. It is the only method by which I have to repay this debt between us.

Go always under my blessing,  
His Holiness, The 14th _Kuninotokotachi_

Your Holiness,

I was very surprised to receive your letter, though not sorry. It was a pleasure to find it in my post box, covered in so many exotic stamps. You write very well, and need not be worried over the legibility of your penmanship; when I first came to America I wanted to write everything boxy and large, like the cyrillic of my homeland, and you see there is evidence of it still, in my B and my H, which in my mother tongue form my initials. Since you so boldly wrote by hand, I have put aside my typewriter, and chosen to do the same.

I'm glad you liked the piece. When I was writing it, I tried very hard to put myself into your shoes. You may remember that day, we discussed the discomfort your shoes might inflict on my feet, but I found them, as you suggested, not so different from my own shoes at all. You say you are but a simple priest, but you are the very heart of the work I've done -- even your simple parable about sandals left a lasting impression on me. I have only attempted to do you justice. If it is eloquent, it is because you are eloquent, and if it is thoughtful, it is because you are thoughtful. The popularity you enjoy is due solely to yourself; it is natural, I think, that people should feel that way. They are only expressing the sentiments I felt, meeting you in person.

I will accept your prayers in the spirit they are given, with gratitude. You need not bless me out of any sense of debt however, it was my job to write about you, and so I have. The debt for my services was paid for very handsomely by the New York Times. If you wish to continue to keep me in your devotions, please let it be because you think me a friend, or at the very least, a rapscallion in need of your constant vigilance to stay out of trouble. You would not be far from the truth.

Yours respectfully,  
V. Nikiforov

Dear Mr. V. Nikiforov,

I hardly expected a response from you, and now that I am permitted to consider you a friend, I find myself flustered with the composition of this, for there are rules to the correspondence of friends that may be omitted in the western letters of business. I apologize for leaving them out of my first letter. First I must hope that you are well, and in good health, and also that your family continues in good health. As I understand it, where you live, on the island of New York, it is now very hot; I hope also then, that you are not too uncomfortable. It is very hot here in Italy, so hot that I go without most of the vestments of my office whenever I can, in favour of a light 浴衣. This word, pronounced _yukata_ , describes a thin cotton robe. It is typically worn for sleeping, but as there are none here except those who know me very well, I can endure the embarrassment of walking about in my pyjamas.

We have moved, lately, from the place where I met you. Perhaps you will remember Miss Sarah Crispino, and her twin brother Michaele? They are family friends of Mr. Cialdini, and in possession of a large villa in Tuscany, which they have graciously turned over to my family and cabinet. It is from here that I have been conducting the slow progress of building my people's future, one letter at a time. I admit that it is pleasant, on this afternoon, to put that aside and indulge selfishly in writing to a friend. There is a very fine breeze at the moment, stirring through the tall, narrow trees outside the window of the room that makes up my office, and I am equipped with a fresh pot of tea. Miss Crispino tells me that the rooms I occupy used to be a cloister. I find this comforting; as though I have been slotted into my proper place. That day, we spoke a great deal about religion. You were surprised, I think, that I would admit to there being others. But I am a part of large tapestry, and in no place to deny anyone their comforts. To hold one way of thinking above another brought us so very close to disaster; I cannot bring myself to partake in it.

I fear this has become morbid. I am so inexperienced in the manner of corresponding with a friend, I hope you will excuse me. I have only Christophe with whom I write any letters of this sort, and if you are as well acquainted with him as I, you know his letters are by no means an example of how one should conduct oneself. He is a fascinating man, but I think more free with words than I have any capability to be. Perhaps it is best I end here. Know that I will certainly continue to pray for you, with more vigor now, in the hopes you remain happy and far from troubles.

My blessings,  
国之常立神 存在感 勝生 勇利

Your Holiness,

Again you apologize for something at which you singularly excel; you are an exceptional correspondent. From your words I can picture you exactly, sitting at your desk in a cool stone building, watching the yew trees outside your window. You will I hope forgive my imagination, I have no context for the garment you describe other than to picture you in a thin bathrobe. I assure you that in my mind’s eye, you look incredibly dignified.

Since this is a letter between friends, I must also wish you to be in good health, and your family too. They were very kind to me, in what must have been a highly confusing time of their lives. As for myself, I am well, and as for my family, I have none that I can speak of, other than my dog, Makkachin. She is exuberantly well, and very pleased the heat has turned in favour of cooler September breezes. You will see from the photo I enclosed that she is made almost entirely of curls, and thus, happier in autumn. I have enclosed some other photos of New York; Chris told me that you take a delight in the unknown, and as you have never been to New York, I thought you might enjoy them. On the back of each I have written a story for you, on why such a photo might interest you. I have no photo of my current surroundings, and so I must tell you that it has been raining this afternoon. It soaked my hat and coat on the walk from the subway to my apartment, and I almost walked right by my post box without checking it in my haste to get upstairs and into something dry. Perhaps it was your providence, that I had to wait for the elevator. I am now comfortably installed in my home office, at my desk chair, with a warm cup of tea and some good dark bread with butter.

In a few weeks I will be travelling to Germany, to meet with correspondents there and report on the efforts of the Big Three. I confess I am not looking forward to being in Germany again, but I will be there for several weeks if all goes well. Makkachin will be under the care of the Russian widower and his grandson who live down the hall, and I will be under the care of your remembrances to your spiritual essence. In your next letter, you must teach me to spell the word for it, I will not attempt to butcher it here.

Your friend,  
Victor

My friend, Victor,

I think you will receive this letter when you are home once again, but I have spoken a blessing over it regardless, for your safe journey and return home. I have asked the 神 ( _kami_ ) to watch over you, and give you strength. I do not know what happened to you, before, in Germany. I can only assume that it is the same for all men who have returned from those years, and now continue to live. I was too young to go to war, and too holy regardless. My home was bombed repeatedly by the Americans, and I spent most of my time displaced, visiting with recovering soldiers and civilians, and trying to help where I could. I fear it was not much. In the same vein I can only do this small thing for you, and hope it is enough.

How is Makkachin? I must tell you, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld, and I cherish the photo you sent, all your photos. I have never been to New York, but you make it seem like a place very worth going to. Before coming to Italy I had never gone outside of the borders of my own country, and before the war, rarely outside of the 伏見稲荷大社, which is how we write the name of the shrine where I grew up. I should like to see your city someday, if I can, but I find myself longing lately, for home. At this point in time, the maples will have turned red, and the cloak worn by 富士山 (Mount _Fuji-san_ ), will be growing longer with snow. I have no photos of Japan to give you, but I have lately made the acquaintance of Mr. Phichit Chulanont, and he is very fond of cameras. He let me take apart and put back together one of his, and since it still functioned after that ordeal, he let me keep it. I have used it to take the enclosed photos, of my desk by the window, and the yews you envisioned, as well as other scenes I thought you might find interesting. My family was very excited to pose for their portrait for you, and send you their well wishes. There is photo too, which Mr. Chulanont took, of me in my _yukata_. It is not quite a bathrobe, although we do wear them in baths.

Very soon I will be leaving Italy, and travelling by special train to Geneva. I'm told we must leave now, before the snow becomes too heavy. While I long to be home, I am also looking forward to seeing a new place, and being reunited with our friend, Christophe. He has promised to teach me to ski, which has scandalized my cabinet as only Christophe can. I have included my new address at the bottom of this letter, in the hopes you will still have the time to write to me. I continue to pray for your well-being and safety. 

My blessings,  
勇利

Your Holiness,

I am receipt of your blessing, thank you. I am home again with Makkachin, just arrived, in fact, so it is possible this letter will reach Switzerland before you do. I hope it finds you as I have found this letter of yours, a cheerful comfort at the end of a long journey. I should like to write to you for as long as you would like to write to me, and so I ask you to please always keep me informed of your whereabouts. You are a holy pilgrim now, having travelled to not just one country but two.

Makka is very well, and sends you her own version of greetings; if you were here in person, she would knock you senseless and slobber all over you, in complete disregard for the respect she ought to show so prestigious a person. It is best then, that you are somewhere in the Alps, and she is here with me in stormy Manhattan. It has begun to snow, which in New York is a life-halting occurrence. When I first came here I could not understand how a place could be ill-prepared for weather, having come from a city which freezes solid from October until April. I admit that I think of Leningrad much more in this season than any other. I hope you can go home very soon, and that when you do, your home reminds you of the place you left.

Thank you, also, for your photos. On this November afternoon, a window to the Tuscan sunshine is more than welcome. I had the nature of your garment entirely wrong, particularly in the sleeves. It's beautiful, and it suits you.

Your friend,  
Victor

Victor,

Happy Birthday!

I hope this arrives in time; Christophe only told me yesterday, and I did not have all the time I would have liked to prepare your gift. You once explained you had tried to imagine yourself in my shoes, at the very least, you may now attempt my socks

Blessings for another year,  
勇利

Your Holiness,

I am an unworthy friend; I missed your birthday entirely. How do you celebrate these occasions in Japan? I will have to prepare belatedly and make it up to you in February. I've come from the office in possession of my next assignment. My editor is sending me to Geneva, to cover the Summit of Leaders, and hopefully further up on my report last June about the Holy God in Exile. He must think there is a juicy scoop, to put me within drinking distance of Christophe Giacometti. I hope our good mutual friend, who is level headed and wise, might spare us a blessing or two in terms of damage control.

Enclosed is a photo of me in my mirror on Christmas Day. I am accompanied by the most beautiful creature ever beheld, and wearing the most uncomfortable socks I have ever experienced, and I once wore nothing but those that came standard issue in the Red Army. I am now more fully assured of your being above mere mortal men.

Thank you, I like them very much.  
Victor

* * *

Victor stubbed out his fourteenth cigarette of the day, grinding it underfoot in snow made firm by repeated shovelling. Geneva was exactly as cold as he liked, and it was a small comfort

"Ready to go in?" Christophe was blowing on his hands, and looked even more handsome with the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks dyed rosy-pink in the chill. He looked fresh from a mountain slope, if après ski involved a three piece suit and a scarf jauntily thrown over one shoulder.

"Lead on," Victor laughed, and braced himself when Christophe took him by the elbow and steered him through the teeming hotel lobby, echoing with the noise of too many reporters speaking too many languages. Victor spoke four, and the attempts of his brain to filter everything into his understanding, coupled with jet-lag, was making him a little off-kilter. They turned in their outerwear at the coat-check, pinning on press badges. It had been no less than twenty minutes, and Victor already wanted another cigarette.

"I'm going to the men's room," he told Christophe. "I'll find you in there."

Victor wanted somewhere quiet, and maybe a little higher up, somewhere where he could crack a window and smoke another three cigarettes in peace. He had no idea why he felt so on edge, which was doing nothing to relieve the itchy feeling under his skin. It abated a little, as he climbed a set of stairs and the noise of the lobby faded, and Victor continued to climb until he was on a silent floor and felt like he could breathe again. The carpet of the hallway was soft and muted his footsteps, and it was a surprise, to open the men's room door and be assaulted by the unavoidable noise of someone retching. Victor wrinkled his nose and was about to back out of the doorway as silently as possible, and then he caught sight of the white socks and wooden sandals under the stall barrier, splayed awkwardly out from the ornate hem of a robe of deep blue silk, as though the wearer had fallen to his knees abruptly. Victor locked the door as it shut behind him.

He knew how to be silent, how to move without notice, and so he was crouched on the balls of his feet in front of the door, one hand resting palm-flat on the cool metal surface, without having disrupted the dry heaving within the stall.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_?"

"Oh." There was an abrupt and painful sound of a throat clearing. "I -"

"It's Victor," he clarified gently. "Is that you, your Holiness?"

"Victor."

He mispronounced it, with consonants and vowels that Victor's name had never possessed. Victor laughed a little, sitting on the floor. "That's me. Can I get you anything?"

"No... no. I just – I just..."

"You can take your time, your Holiness. I don't have to be anywhere for... Forty-five minutes."

From within the locked stall, there came a weak groan.

"Is it a flu? Highly unpleasant," Victor said cheerfully, digging into his pockets for his cigarettes. He came up instead with his handkerchief, and so he did the gallant thing and held it under the door. Victor felt the silk of the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's robe brush the back of his hand, and the slight tug of the cloth between his fingers, indicating the holy man had reached out for it. Victor let it go; it was considered improper to touch the _Kuninotokotachi_ without permission, a tarnishing of his spiritual person.

"I'm fine," _Sonzaikan_ whispered. "I'm not... not ill."

"I'm glad to hear that. Did you perhaps drink too much last night?"

The _Kuninotokotachi_ laughed weakly. "I do not drink."

"I thought wine was a part of your rituals? I have been doing my research, your Holiness, since you introduced me to your faith last June."

"It is." _Sonzaikan_ 's voice was muffled, and huffed a little, as he pulled his legs underneath himself. "It is not forbidden to drink, just not something I do." The toilet flushed, and Victor drew back a little from the door.

"Then, you're nervous," Victor said quietly.

The door to the stall swung inwards, revealing the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , kneeling in his elaborately embroidered robes, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. His face was devoid of colour save the slashes of black hair that made up his eyebrows, and his dark eyes were troubled, red-rimmed from crying. He was clutching both the edge of the door and Victor's handkerchief in a white-knuckled grip.

"I am... uncomfortable in large crowds," he whispered, eyes falling shut behind his spectacles. "Please don't... don't tell anyone."

He looked incredibly young and small, and Victor was reminded that while he was a god on earth, he was only twenty-four, and had recently graduated from college.

"You make me keep a lot of secrets," he smiled. "And this one isn't even true. I saw you speak to hundreds of your followers in Italy."

"Ah that's different," _Sonzaikan_ sighed. "This is... in English, and... I can't – I can't let anyone down..."

Victor scoffed in his nose and climbed to his feet, crossing to the sink, where he set about wetting some paper towel. The noise startled the _Kuninotokotachi_ into opening his eyes, and after a moment he shyly followed after Victor, his sandals clicking against the floor.

"This is a subject about which you are singularly equipped to speak, your Holiness." Victor offered him the wet towel, and when he stared at it in confusion, gently lifted away his glasses to press the paper to his eyes. He felt the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's sharp intake of breath against his wrist.

"Just pretend that you are speaking to your followers," he offered. "I'm sure then it will feel quite natural."

_Sonzaikan-sama_ shook his head against Victor's palm, his teeth sinking into his lip. From the tensing of his shoulders, Victor panicked that he might start to cry again.

"Then, talk to me. How about that? I'll stand where you can see me, and you just look at me and tell me everything."

"Oh..."

"I'm very interested in what you have to say. Do you think, instead of whatever stuffed suits they have out there, you could talk to a friend?"

The edges of the _Kuninotkotachi_ 's lips approached something like a smile. "I think so, maybe..."

"Worst case I'll cause a diversion, hm? If you freeze up there, I'll set the curtains on fire.

The watery peal of _Sonzaikan_ 's laughter echoed in the tiled room like the ringing of a silvery bell. "Thank you, Victor."

Victor peeled the towels away, revealing the large dark eyes of Japan's living god, which were in no way magnified by his glasses, as previously believed. They were lit with something like fire, sublime to behold. He set the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's spectacles once again over the bridge of his nose, almost as an act of self-preservation. It was easier to look at him with the barrier between them.

"Then, I'll see you out there," he promised.

* * *

Grainy, black and white footage of the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ 's address to the United Nations. Leadership Summit, February 10th, 1951, now widely referred to as the "Walk as One Another" speech.

Applause, as a young man in a kimono stands at the podium. He spends several moments looking a little off centre of the room, and then a small smile curves his lips.

"Gentlemen of the free world," he begins, bringing his hands together in front of him, and bowing "I come before you today, a simple monk from Japan, but also, as a friend..."

* * *

Your Holiness,

I saw this postcard in Heathrow airport, where I am changing planes to return to the United States, and thought you might like to have it. As you have never been to London, I can tell you that it is an accurate photo of Westminster, at least in as much as I remember it. Before I leave Europe, I wanted to congratulate you on the beautiful speech you gave. I did not mean to cry, and wanted to assure you that the reason I did was not your fault. You were so busy afterwards, that I did not have time to tell you in person before I left.

BH.

Dear Victor,

Thank you for your postcard. It was forwarded to me here in Paris, where I am currently meeting with European leaders to discuss aid efforts in Germany, and setting trade tariffs. Caring for people is work I understand, though I admit discussing the value of commodities is not something I have readily trained for. I find myself a little weary, my mind has been exercising itself in new ways. It is exciting, important work, but heavy. Tomorrow I will be taken on a tour of the city, and I hope to take some very fine photographs; I will include them with this letter should they turn out.

From here I believe I will then go to London, where I will recognize Westminster thanks to you, and then other European cities. Everywhere around me are the pockmarks of the war; food shortages, sickness, the ruins of buildings. Even now, six years later. I am tired, but there is so much work to be done. I have heard from my cabinet that things in Japan are progressing well, and there is talk of the Americans leaving the country. I am deeply pleased that my people have so quickly been able to help themselves. I have been approving many new contracts to rebuild the infrastructure of the country, and it is my hope that when I do return home, it will be to a nation beginning to flourish. If we can help ourselves, then we will be able to turn our efforts outward, and help others too.

You will forgive me, I hope, for this -- but can we not speak of the reason you wept? I am worried for you, and wish to repay the kindness you showed me that day. Once again, you happened into my life. I begin to think perhaps you are fated to find me when I am at my lowest, and exalt me to further heights than I might reach on my own. Can I not do this for you? Or perhaps that is the unbalanced nature of our friendship, you, who once flew through the sky, and me, always shuddering on the ground. It has been weighing on me more than these trade talks, that you might be upset. Please write, and know that I am praying for you.

My blessings always,  
勇利

Your Holiness,

I have written at least fourteen drafts of this letter, and they all sit, crumpled and scattered around my desk chair. It should hardly surprise you, if anyone could render me speechless, me, who writes for a living, then it is you. If you are reading this, then it means this fifteenth draft has reached you.

I have been looking at your photographs of Paris. They are spread out on my blotter next to where I am writing to you. In your eye, it has become a very beautiful city, though I remember it very differently. You are familiar with my work and so perhaps you know that it was in Paris where I was captured, and there transferred to a POW camp, first in Poland and then in Germany. I think you do. I do not wish to burden you with any of the past hardships of my life, and so I will not speak of them here. To me you are very bright and sparkling, clean. When you spoke so well, with such passion, on the necessity to heal the rifts man has wrought in the world, I felt an emotion rising in me that I haven't felt, for many, many years. It overtook me more so, knowing you were speaking to me, who you consider a friend. There has been a rift inside me for longer than I can conceivably explain. I do not think it will ever heal. I wept, because I think I must disappoint you.

I do not know why it is that I feel like I can tell you any of this. I can only assume that it is because you are holy, and I am so far from the divine. You have never once shuddered upon the ground. In you the voice of the world speaks, loud and thunderous, from atop every mountain. Please, do not worry about me, when so many others are answering your call.

Yours,  
Victor

My dear friend Victor,

I wept over your letter. I did not want to tell you, but you have been so honest with me, and so I shall always be honest with you.There are times when I feel I am not suited to the position that was given to me in my youth. I constantly doubt myself, lack confidence, and believe I should not hold the office that I do. I feel sometimes, that those around me simply humor me, and that I make the wrong choices, do irreparable damage. There are times when I am expected to be holy, but I feel, simply, that I am only a man. As I was learning to lead my people, and learning about the world around me, I met Christophe, and through him, was passed the very first article you wrote, for the Gazette. I translated it personally as an exercise in learning French. You were only 16, but already a hero. I told myself that I should live with courage, with honour, and in the service of those less strong than I, just as you had done. I had to keep my enthusiasm for your exploits a secret, for they were against our allies, but I did my best, as I grew, to lead by your example. This is the first time you elevated me.

I was nervous, in Italy, to know I was meeting you. I rudely kept both you and Christophe waiting for over four hours, determined to fulfill all other duties, so that I would be able to give you my undivided attention, and then, once meeting you, I upset you with a blessing, with my meagre hospitality, and my denial to speak with you as I would any other reporter. You went away, I think, quite angry. I was forlorn. I had disappointed the man I so wished to impress. But you returned, the next morning, and I endeavoured to do my best not to aggravate you. The conversation we held, in that dappled grove of trees, is one of the most interesting I have ever had. We conducted our interview, and I felt, if not that I had dazzled you, at least I could say you would remember me well. And then I read your article. This as you know, is the second time you blessed my life.

Our correspondence since has been a pleasure for me. It seems my role increases and increases, and the demands on my time are more and more, but each time I see the small blue envelope of your stationary, I feel renewed. I do not know how I became so lucky as to be interesting to you, but I am grateful. I do not think I could do this work without the reassurances of your friendship. My way in life is not as easy as it could be; it is my own weaknesses that often make it so. You saw firsthand, the evidence of these weaknesses in Geneva. My mind is often too loud, but in your presence, it became quiet. In the coolness of the paper you pressed to my eyes, in the comforting darkness of the shield of your hand, I felt able to breathe freely. In your reassurance, I felt able to speak. I believe that in the canonization of orthodox saints, three miracles are required, and this, my friend, was your third act of grace.

All of this is to say that it would be impossible for you to disappoint me. As a boy, I idolized you, and now that I have grown to know you, truly, I cherish you. I cannot ask you to forgive the transgressions that may have happened to you. I can only ask that you continue to live as the kind, exuberant, and wonderful man you are. You must always just be yourself, that will always be enough for me.

Your friend,  
勇利

My friend,

If you wish me to be myself, I am but helpless to obey a divine command. I think you exaggerate my miracles, but as it is your field of expertise, and not mine, I shall have to defer to your wisdom. And since you have promised me honesty, I will try also to tell you the truth.

I was not angry with you that day, merely reeling from the magnitude of you. I pride myself on the empty politeness of my job. I was prepared to meet you objectively and then dismiss you as I would any other subject I am sent to write about. Before I even spoke to you, you had bewitched my imagination. I spent the duration of your sermon composing several incredibly flowery descriptions of you. And purple prose aside, I was impressed by your composure and grace. I too, have fled a place in the dark of night, fearful for my own safety, with much less at stake than you had. At the time I had only the meagre existence of my own self to protect, but you had several persons, an entire nation, and the fragile peace of the world resting on your shoulders. I spent the four hours writing useless thoughts, thinking I might still ask you such foolish questions as what you eat for breakfast, and if you had seen the face of god. And then I met you. You are completely unaware, I think, of the power you have, it is what makes you so captivating. You have no idea that when you are in a room everything stops, and waits for your breath. No idea that under your gaze, the blood turns to ice and fire, and the heart beats at your whim. I left so abruptly because I feared I would embarrass myself when it was so obvious you had endured so much, and wished for quiet. I left you to Christophe, and was rewarded, as I put on my shoes in the hallway, by hearing your laugh.

You are not weak, far from it. I could not do half the tremendous things you have done. Your feet may be firmly on the ground, but your hands are rebuilding the world, and your gaze is on the very edge of the horizon. The future that you see there is one I want, someday, to reach. If I can help you get there, with a steady supply of blue envelopes, then I will.

Yours,  
Victor

PS - I saw your picture in The Guardian yesterday, signing some accord or other. You look tired; please take care of yourself. Before you can help others, you must help yourself. Sleep well and eat well, or I will send Christophe after you.

My dear Victor,

I was so happy to receive your last letter, the seventh you have sent me. In Japan, seven is an incredibly auspicious number, representing the number of gods who govern good fortune. It is also the first letter in which you have omitted my title, a practise I hope you will continue. We are good friends, honest always with each other, and no ceremony should stand between us, here, in the missives we write by hand.

For breakfast I have rice, and an egg if they are not scarce. I drink tea, and dream about the breakfasts I had as a child. A typical one might include grilled fish, lightly seasoned vegetables, a soup made from soy beans and seaweed, and as many bowls of rice as I might like to eat. I am fond of food, a little too fond, and even were the world not under the strain of rationing, I have to limit myself. I have been trying many new foods in my travels in Europe, and trying my best to keep up with my dance practice to augment the indulgence. It is hard to do, when I travel so much and spend so many hours sitting, idle in meetings.

I see the face of god every day, in the natural beauty of the land, the kindness of people, and the promise of another blue envelope. You will see from the post mark that I am currently in Spain; I find Barcelona very beautiful. I am in awe of the great stone cathedrals that dot the European landscape, so tall and heavy, compared to my own homey shrine. There is a silence to the space that I enjoy, though yesterday I had the opportunity to hear one fill up with the song of worship. It was incredibly moving; I thought immediately of you, though I am not certain why. I think maybe I wanted you to hear it too. Since you were not with me, I have taken a photograph of the church, as well as some other landmarks that caught my interest. There is also some new pictures of my family, and I borrowed your idea, and used my mirror to photograph myself, so you might ascertain whether I look better now than I did signing humanitarian aid agreements in Belgium. I must assure you that I am sleeping and eating as best I can.

Yours,  
勇利

My Dear Friend,

I will address you by whichever name you like, only it must be by your permission. I have already removed your glasses and set damp paper to your face, and though I was careful not to touch you directly, I suspect Minami-san would not appreciate the nuance. In your photo, you look better, though I think you are in want of more than rice for breakfast. If you are still in Spain, you must eat paella. You must do this for me, because I have never been to Barcelona, and I expect a detailed description of the dish and how you enjoyed it. Your photographs are better than postcards, you have a very good eye for composition. I have heard singing in a cathedral, which is part of the religious rites I grew up with in Russia. It can indeed be moving, though I imagine your dance is far more spectacular. I hope someday soon, you can perform it again.

It is spring here in New York; I have been taking Makkachin on long walks in Central Park. There is talk of me going out on assignment again, this time to the front in Korea. I am not looking forward to what I might find there. But if it happens, I will see if I can organize a trip for myself afterwards, to see your home. What should I visit? I will eat a proper breakfast, grilled fish, bean soup and all, if you promise me to eat your weight in Spanish ham.

Last weekend I took my neighbour's grandson to his very first baseball game. It is not a sport we had in the Soviet Union, or a sport which I think exists outside of America, but it is very popular here. He is a bristly sort of youth, but I think he enjoyed himself. We had ice creams and Coco-colas, and by the end of it I think he grudgingly accepted my company. He's still in school, but has aspirations of becoming a reporter. He thinks I'm terribly washed up, but has been asking me for advice about colleges. I think he will do well; with things going the way they are, correspondents who can speak Russian are an asset. It was nice, too, to enjoy some time away from work. I confess I have been somewhat holed up all winter, hibernating, with my head down in my typewriter. It was good to do something different. 

Don't work too hard,  
Victor

* * *

It wasn't so uncommon, for Victor to be called into his boss' office. It hadn't happened in a month, which was surely a new record, and meant he was due for some sort of scolding. Victor lit himself a cigarette, hiding the amused curling of his smile behind the stick of tobacco in between his fingers. Yakov was pacing behind his desk, his face alternating between red and purple, and Victor was content to wait him out, but worried for his heart condition.

"You wanted to see me?"

Yakov spun on his heel, hands slamming onto the top of his desk, and rattling his pen cup. Victor was used to these dramatics, and did not flinch.

"Want to tell me why," Yakov thundered, "I got this letter this morning?" He thrust the offending paper across his blotter. It was upside down, and Victor could only make out the familiar shape of an intricate red stamp at the bottom. His hand shook as he picked the letter up.

"That little holy Jap is-"

"Don't call him that," Victor said, brows furrowing as he turned the paper up the right way.

"- coming to San Francisco," Yakov continued, unhearing. "And we had a deal, an exclusive interview, but now I get this polite little apology that unless I send Victor Nikiforov, the interview is cancelled."

The neat, type-written lines of text were indeed polite, and apologetic, and though it was apparently written by a third party, Victor recognized the familiar cadence of the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's words.

"You're leaving for Korea in three days! Three days Victor, and this fellow thinks he can threaten me-!"

"Well, he can," Victor laughed. "He's a living god. There's a bit of authority that comes along with it."

"I have you staffed in Korea for the rest of the year! Why on earth would he think you can just show up to interview him whenever he wants?"

"Maybe I'm just that charming," Victor grinned.

"You're a pain in my ass, is what you are," Yakov growled. "I'm sending Popovich to Korea. You're on the society beat until he gets back. You better hope this interview is worth your weight in gold, because it's your career on the line."

"Always a pleasure Yakov," Victor nodded, getting to his feet. He stubbed his cigarette out in Yakov's ashtray, ignoring the blast of Russian curse words that followed him through the door. In the hallway he leaned against the wall, holding up the letter still in his hand. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the vermillion ink of the official seal with a small smile.

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

Official Itinerary of the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , August, 1951

August 17th, 6am local time – Arrival JFK Airport

August 17th, 7am local time – Travel from Airport to Westgate Grand Central Hotel (security to be prepared for arrival at 8:45 am)

August 17th, 9am local time – Breakfast with Governor Thomas E. Dewey and the Ladies Society of Upper New York

August 17th, 11am local time – Leisure and rest, meditation

August 18th, 8am local time – Breakfast with Mayor Impellitteri and the Coalition for Immigration in New York

August 18th, 10am local time – Speaking address, NYU Students Association

August 18th, 12 noon local time – Lunch, American Red Cross

August 18th, 2pm local time – UN Secretariat of Human Rights, Nations Meeting (speaking at 2:45pm)

August 18th, 7pm local time – Dinner, UN Leaders

August 19th, 9am local time – Refer to UN Schedule, page 14 of this packet – to August 24th

August 25th, 10am local time – Departure, Grand Central Hotel to JFK

August 25th, 2pm local time – Departure, JFK Airport for San Francisco

* * *

Victor was sitting at his typewriter, working on a piece, when a soft knock rapped on the door of his apartment. He frowned slightly, getting to his feet and padding down the hall. Makkachin was still blissfully asleep on her back atop Victor's bed, the knock had been too quiet to rouse her. He shut the door as he walked past; Makka took her job as official greeter of all guests a little too enthusiastically.

A second knock sounded on the door as he walked through his living room.

"Just a moment," he called, combing back his hair with his fingers. It was hot in the apartment, and Victor's polo shirt was a little sweaty. He tugged the collar straight, and slid the bolt on the door. "Hello?"

In the hallway stood a young Asian man in a dark suit with a large camera slung around his neck, and wearing a wide smile.

" _Biktoru_ ," he beamed.

He'd gotten new, blue-framed glasses, and his hair was worn soft around his face, instead of tightly controlled by pomade. Victor gaped at him.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_?!"

"Shhh!" The _Kuninotokotachi_ lunged forward to press a single finger to Victor's lips. He darted a quick look down either side of the hallway. "Please, just _Yuuri_. My name."

Victor took hold of his wrist and pulled him into the apartment, behind the safety of his closed door. "What are you doing here?" He hissed. "It's... I thought you were in San Francisco?"

"New York first, I arrived this morning. I had breakfast with the governor."

"Breakfast with the governor," Victor laughed weakly, pressing his hand to his eyes. "This is a surprise."

"Yes! A surprise!" _Sonzaikan_ laughed, delighted. "Minami-kun called your office, but they said you were at home. But I know your address! So Nishigori-"

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," Victor interrupted, "Am I going to get arrested by the CIA? I don't think you're allowed to run off on the American government when they invite you somewhere."

"Oh! My cabinet knows my whereabouts. I made sure to keep this whole day free. I wanted to see you, to see New York with you."

"That's... very sweet," Victor smiled. His nose felt hot. "And thank you, but you're a very important person, to be walking around New York with just me."

"That is why I am in disguise?" He indicated the very expensive looking suit. It was well tailored, and fit him beautifully. The _Kuninotokotachi_ was a slender man, with long, graceful limbs.

"Somehow, I don't think this will attract less attention," Victor admitted with a wry grin.

"Is it…" _Sonzaikan_ frowned, fingers pulling on the hem of his jacket. "Christophe helped me pick this out…"

"It's lovely," Victor assured him. "And you look very nice. Too nice. I'm going to have to beat girls away with a stick."

The _Kuninotokotachi_ 's frown deepened. "That is a very disrespectful way to treat young women, Victor!"

"No," Victor laughed, "I meant, you look incredibly handsome. Everyone is going to be staring at you; you're bound to be recognized."

"Oh…" A very delicate flush had crawled over the _Kuninotokotachi_ 's cheekbones. "I don't… If you think it's too much trouble, then-"

Victor felt a little helpless. Before he could stop himself, he put a hand on _Sonzaikan_ 's elbow. "It's not, of course it's not. You're not a trouble. I'll get you a different shirt of mine, and then we can go."

"Really?" _Sonzaikan_ 's eyes seemed to shimmer beneath his glasses, and he clasped his hands together, pressed into his chest. "And then, you'll show me New York?"

"Yes," Victor laughed, leading him into the living room. "I'll do my best, your Holiness!"

"Yuuri," he corrected. "My friends call me Yuuri."

"Okay, then. Yuuri." Victor opened the door of his bedroom, intent on getting to his closet. "Have you thought about where - oh Makka! No!"

Forty-five pounds of excited poodle tore through the open door and knocked the Living God of Japan straight onto his bottom. She barked once and then set about trying to lick his glasses off his face. He squirmed on Victor's carpet, giggling. "Oh, oh this is Makkachin! A good girl!" He laughed again, rubbing her ears and singing something to her in Japanese. Makkachin laid down on top of him, eyes closing in bliss.

"I think she likes you," Victor sighed, though a fond smile was tugging at his lips. "Are you all right?"

"Mm." He'd coaxed Makka to roll over, and was now rubbing her belly. Both of them looked like there was nothing else they'd rather be doing.

In the end, he completely redressed Yuuri, in a cotton t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Victor's clothes were a little large on him, but the jeans were easily cinched with a belt, and the legs rolled up. Victor's shoes were too big, and so Yuuri remained in his brown oxfords, but Victor gave him a pair of red socks to wear, folded over once. He looked like a university student of a slightly artistic bend, and with his camera, no one looked twice at a youth with glasses, taking photos. Yuuri was enamoured with everything in Victor's neighbourhood, the cement sidewalks and the laundry hanging from fire escapes, the brick of the buildings. As the subway came rushing into the station he clapped his hands, the whooshing air thrilling him, and making his hair stand up on itself.

They did not have long, and so Victor tried to be conservative. He took Yuuri first up through Grand Central, and then out to see the Empire State Building. Then they walked north, to Rockefeller Plaza. The Living God's enthusiasm for everything was infectious, he managed to get a startled business man to stop his abrupt walk and take a photo of Victor and himself, posed by the Apollo fountain. He grew hungry, and so Victor bought him a hotdog and a Coco-cola in Central Park. The soda made him giggle, startled at the fizziness, and then hiccup, and his surprised, betrayed face set Victor to laughing so hard he nearly choked. They took the train to the Lower East Side, and Victor bought tickets for a river ferry, which took them under the Brooklyn Bridge, around the tip of the island and up to the Hudson Yards. As they sailed past Battery Park, Victor took hold of Yuuri's arm and led him to the stern.

The sun was lowering, though this deep into summer, it would be hours before it set. It set the river glowing like thousands of copper tiles, the perfect backdrop against which to see the green statue in the distance.

"Victor look!" Yuuri nearly fell over the railing, pointing, and Victor had to grab the back of his shirt to keep him on the deck.

"I see it, stay on the boat!"

But Yuuri was laughing, aiming his camera at Lady Liberty, trusting Victor's hand on his back to prevent him from toppling into the river.

"If you drown, I really will get arrested," Victor muttered, throwing his other arm around Yuuri's waist.

"Isn't it wondrous, Victor?" Yuuri asked, finally setting his heels back on the deck. His eyes were wide, shining with the light on the water. "Did you see her, when you came to America?"

"I did," Victor smiled, letting his hand rest on Yuuri's shoulder, and digging for his cigarettes with the other. "I came through Ellis Island just like everyone else." He pointed towards it, a small mound of land, around which several ships had docked.

Yuuri lifted his camera and snapped a picture of it. "The place where your life here began," he said quietly. He turned a little, smile burnished gold. "I am happy, to have seen it with you."

Victor squeezed his shoulder. "Come up to the front, you'll have a good view of downtown."

After the ferry, Victor took them back to the apartment. He had to let Makkachin out, and he let Yuuri hold her leash as they took her around the block to do her business. As Victor was unlocking his door to let them all back in, the door to the apartment at the end of the hall banged open to emit a young teenaged-boy into the hallway. Yuri Plisetsky was small for his age, and his delicate features and chin-length blonde hair made him look a bit like a girl. To combat this, we was dressed in a heavy leather jacket despite the heat. He paused in front of his door, green eyes narrowing, as Makka tried desperately to pull her leash out of Yuuri's hands so she could knock the boy over with her standard greeting.

"Who's this?" he asked bluntly, chin pointing at the _Kuninotokotachi_.

"Ah," Yuuri said sagely. "You are the neighbour's angry grandson."

"What the fuck did you just call me?"

"Yes," Yuuri nodded to himself. "Definitely him."

"Okay!" Victor clapped his hands, taking Makkachin's leash and virtually pushing Yuuri inside his apartment. "Yura, always a pleasure. Give my respects to Nikolai!"

"Hey, asshole!" Yuri shouted, but Victor shut the door, muffling the rest of his diatribe. He laughed apologetically, sliding the bolt. Yuri had been known to kick the door open before.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I'm starving. Let me cook you something!"

Yuuri followed Victor into the kitchen, curious of how everything worked, and keen to help. Victor set him up in one corner of the counter with a bag of oranges and his juice press while he set about making them _kotleti_ . The _Kuninotokotachi_ attacked his task with an endearing focus, carefully wiping his hands upon the apron Victor gave him, and squeezing the fruit dry. Yuuri was surprisingly strong.

They ate at Victor's little kitchen table, Yuuri still wearing his apron, and Makka winding herself around the table legs, trying to beg. Victor had dished out some of the _okroshka_ soup sitting in his fridge, and put the baseball game on the radio. It was a helpful distraction, Yuuri asked endless questions about the rules of the game, and didn't notice when Victor put extra _kotleti_ onto his plate. When the meal was complete, Victor waved Yuuri into the living room.

"Keep the dog busy for me?" he asked. Victor put a jazz station on and went to tackle the dishes. He smiled a little to himself, clearing the table, at the laughter and happy barks filtering down his hallway. He'd never seen the _Kuninotokotachi_ outside of his heavy garments, outside of his responsibilities as a spiritual and political leader. Victor had known, from their letters, that he was kind, humble, even a little funny. But he'd been unprepared for the cheerfully eager young man who'd shown up on his doorstep, who'd tackled New York with a boundless enthusiasm and curiosity, snapping photographs left and right and asking tireless questions. Yuuri had a wide, incandescent smile, and Victor had found himself swept up in his excited energy, so different from the serious, quiet and thoughtful living god he'd met in Europe.

"I suppose it must be nice, to step away from it," Victor reasoned to the dishes in the drying rack, pulling the plug out of the drain. He picked his cigarettes and matches up off the counter and walked down the hall.

"Did you have a nice day, Yuuri?" he asked, eyes on his cigarettes and not the sofa. When he looked up, it was to find Yuuri curled into the cushions with Makka on top of him, fast asleep. She blinked at Victor, her tail thumping lazily against Yuuri's leg.

"We can't keep him," Victor told her softly. "He's got more important things to do."

Victor took Yuuri's camera with him out onto the fire escape. He smoked a cigarette, watching twilight descend over the city, and as the moon rose up over the skyline in the distance, he took a picture of it. Nat King Cole was crooning gently about when he fell in love, and Victor tip-toed back into his living room, set the view to his eye, and captured the two sleeping figures stretched out over his sofa

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," he whispered, shaking his shoulder gently to rouse him. "It's time to go back."

* * *

TOKYO TAKES REINS

Formal End of War With Ten Nations Hailed in Ceremonies

By V. Nikiforov, New York Times

The Leaders of fifty-one nations gathered in San Francisco to formally ratify the Treaty of Peace with Japan, thereby ending years of war with the island nation. The treaty will take effect this spring, as US officials within the country transition duties over to the Japanese government.

Talks were lengthy, with the representatives from the Soviet Union voicing concerns over the withdrawal of Allied troops. While Mr. Shigeru Yoshida, current Prime Minister of Japan, was quick to assure the assembly of Japan's intentions to avoid the imperialist mistakes of its past, it was an impassioned speech delivered by his Holiness, 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , which settled debate and allowed proceedings to continue…

_see Religious Leader, page A23_

* * *

Dear Victor,

In two months, I will be going home. It seems so very strange to say it, for a long time the idea of going home remained a distant goal. But the Americans are leaving, and the world will now watch, to see how Japan remakes herself. When I left Japan a year and a half ago, my heart was heavy, and my task seemed impossible. Now that I have gone out into the wider world, I see that there are many tasks before us all. My vision has extended, and I am a wiser man for it. I will go home to my people carrying these new thoughts, observations, and hopes, and try my best for them.

I wanted to thank you again, for spending that day with me. I see now, in hindsight, that I put you into a difficult spot. To show up unannounced on your doorstep was bold of me, but I do not regret it. I will treasure our day in the city of New York as one of my fondest memories of my time abroad. When I reread your past letters, I have new meaning to the world you describe, the lamp post on the corner of your street, the soft, sunny yellow paint of your kitchen. I know now, the timbre of Makkachin's bark, and the exact scorch of your young neighbour's scorn. I know the heat and the noise and the way they fall away upon the river. I have seen you in your natural habitat, eaten at your table, worn the clothes off your back. I walked many, many miles in your vibrant red socks, and my heart felt fortified, able to persevere. When the talks in San Francisco grew long and trying, when I wanted to throw up my hands, or scream, I remembered the way you smile at Makkachin, how you dance a little as you clean dishes, and was able to keep my composure.

It may take longer now, for me to return letters to you; I will still be expected to perform my duties as a lawmaker, but now I will also return to my duties at the shrine, where my time is incredibly regimented. This is not to say that I will not write, merely that the time in which I can write to you will become more precious to me. You see I am seeking not to surprise you, as I did that day. I hope to always learn from my mistakes, and avoid startling you. In this same vein, I am pleased to tell you that the New York Times has asked to send a reporter to cover the festivities surrounding my return to Japan, and I have once again specifically requested your talents. You asked, before, what you ought to do and see; my mother is looking forward to preparing breakfast for you, almost as much as I am, to showing you my home in return.

Blessings until we meet again.

Your friend,  
勇利  
( _Yuuri_ )

PS - enclosed are copies of a few of the photos from my camera, including two that surprised me.

Dear Yuuri,

I hope you don't mind that I use the roman alphabet for your name, the characters of your native alphabet are intricate, and I'm liable to misspell them and commit the error of calling you by something else entirely. You write it differently than my young neighbour, who is also called Yuri.

I wanted to congratulate you, on your success in San Francisco. I know you are eager to get home and serve your people, just as I know that your people are eager for your safe return. No one has worked harder, and no one will, for their future well-being. I must admit to you, my dear friend, that as you spoke at the assembly I was again moved. I did not cry, but felt a pride rising in me that must have made me insufferable to the camera men around me, for I was surely glowing with it. There you were, my friend, speaking so truthfully and well, and in front of so many, which I know vexes you. You did so very, very well, and this peaceful conclusion is the well deserved reward. I hope you can take a bit of pride in yourself too, knowing how successful you were.

Please always continue to surprise me. I love surprises, and yours I find are always the best sort. I did not know yet that I was going to Japan, and so when I read your letter, I was delighted to learn that I will see you again so soon. I will give you a surprise in return: I am bringing along little Yuri, who has joined the Times as an intern, and has the unfortunate task of shadowing me until one of us breaks. It may very well be that I will have to rely upon your excellent peace-keeping skills to keep us from injuring each other.

Makka sends her regards,  
Victor

* * *

Kyoto was a riot of cherry blossoms. They fluttered from every tree, settling into every surface, swirling along paths and roadways in the light wind. They scattered along the polished wood of the raised platform, blew through the open paper screen, and stuck to Victor's socks. They seemed to float out of the darkness, a strange, pale pink snow. Yuri squirmed next to him, and Victor tsked slightly. They'd been sitting on cushions for nearly an hour, as twilight lengthened and deepened into night, kept at bay by the lanterns hung from the rafters of the structure, and the bonfires lit around the shrine grounds. Victor checked his watch, and the guide who'd been assigned to the English speaking members of the press, Yuuko-chan, bowed her head a little, and gave Victor a small apologetic smile.

"It won't be long now," she promised, and even as she spoke, a deep, rolling drum beat somewhere, steady, pulsing like a heartbeat. Her smile grew wider. "Ah," she whispered, "here he comes."

The screen perpendicular to their seated assembly, separating the platform from the shrine itself, slid open. The crowd below went silent. Yuuri slid one silk-stockinged foot forwards, settling it with grace and purpose on the shimmering wood. His face was hidden by the elaborately painted fan he held, and the shape of his body by intricate layers of robes, in every shade of blue from robin's egg to sapphire. Deep purple ribbon wove through the edges of his sleeves and dragged on the floor, and an ornate headdress of golden flowers sat upon his brow. His steps were silent, but each one was punctuated by the bells that tinkled from the small wand he held in his other hand. The drums grew louder, faster, frantic, until Yuuri reached the centre of the platform, and then they abruptly stopped.

"His Holiness will now perform the cleansing dance," Yuuko-chan whispered, "to repurify the shrine."

"This had better be fucking worth it," Yuri muttered.

"Shhh!" Victor hissed, and pinched him.

The drums began again. On the wooden platform, Yuuri moved like water, the soft firelight rippling along the lines of his clothes. He moved the fan as he danced, but the bells he held aloft, the central line of his movement, around which the rest of his limbs organized themselves. The steps were slow, then fast, dipping, then turning, but the true marker of his prowess was that the bells in his hand never sounded. Not once, until the steps of the dance took him to the edge of the platform. Here, his dance came to a graceful stop; the drums quieted, and Yuuri lowered his arm and rang the bells once, loud, out over the crowd. The sound hung there, and then the drum beat picked up again, and Yuuri moved with it, the same steps as before, which took him to the next side of the platform. His back was straight and true as he rang the bells again.

"His Holiness will bless each direction," Yuuko-chan explained softly, "saving the most important, the direction of the shrine itself, for last."

Victor's heart climbed into his throat as Yuuri turned, as he danced his fluid steps now in their direction. There was nothing to mark him but the simple drum, but each movement of Yuuri's body called up a symphony in Victor's mind, the tinkle of a piano in his fingertips, the swell of strings in his shoulders. The woodwinds lived in his feet. His arm swept out, flaring his fan, and Victor swore he heard the orchestra swell as one, bold and loud and full of hope. He had never seen anything so beautiful or been more moved by any piece of art or music then he was now, staring into Yuuri's dark eyes. The bell rang somewhere in Victor's chest; he shivered, and tears sprung to the corners of his eyes, held helpless and captive in the gaze of a Living God, receiving his blessing. Yuuri raised his chin and rang the bell in his hand again, and it was like thunder in his hands.

Victor didn't hear Yuuko-chan's surprised exclamation, or notice the way the Japanese press corps immediately prostrated themselves. He didn't see the Western guests, confused, attempt to bow in their seats. His eyes were locked on Yuuri, on the play of firelight and petals across his silken figure. Something was burning in Yuuri's eyes, something holy and righteous, and it scorched Victor's bones, shocked its way, electric, across Victor's skin. He wondered how he looked, wide-eyed, tear-streaked, enraptured, like so many mortals were in religious paintings. Like unbelievers, finally viewing the divine.

The drum beat, or maybe it was the echo of Victor's pulse, thudding in his ears. Yuuri moved away to complete the final circuit of his dance, silent, and Victor pressed his palm to his chest, allowing himself to breathe.

"Holy shit," Yuri whispered, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Holy shit... what was that?"

Victor was too shaken to remind Yuri not to swear, and Yuuko-chan too polite not to answer.

"His Holiness has blessed us with his divine protection," she whispered, "and taken away the burdens of our past."

Victor's fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket, and it took all of his willpower not to whisper Yuuri's name.

* * *

My dear Victor,

It has been some time since we were last together; I apologize for taking so long to write. I have only recently been provided with the articles you wrote about your trip -- I especially liked the one for Vanity Fair. My Minister of Tourism says we currently enjoy an influx of guests from Europe and overseas, I think, perhaps, this is your doing. Were you a poet in your prior life? The way you describe the country is reminiscent of our masters.

I don't have much time to jot this down, my first letter to you from Japan will be unfortunately brief. I must apologize for this too. My duties fold over and over on themselves, until they seem innumerable. I catch myself, sometimes, staring at some place in the courtyard, or upon the 縁側 ( _engawa_ ), and remembering your standing there. There is a sweet melancholy to it; I picture you very clearly, but it is only the construction of my mind, you are no longer there in truth.

Write and tell me what you are up to, how you are. If I can picture you at home, perhaps I shall be able to return you there, and cease to think of you in mine.

Yours,  
Yuuri

Dear Yuuri,

If I was a poet, prior to this century, I hope that I had the pleasure of meeting you, in your life back then. I have been reading the English translations of the poetry prepared for each of us to take home as your guest, so the more likely answer is that it was at the forefront of my mind when I was writing. I like the aesthetics of your poets very much.

I think I have to apologize too, I have not written either. I was on assignment for some time, here in America, but not at home in New York. Would it surprise you, to know that I look at the chair opposite mine when I eat Котлеты ( _kotleti)_ , and imagine you there? In my white t-shirt and my blue apron, with your hair around your face? I think about you when the train comes into the subway station, when I drink a coca-cola. When the light sparkles on the river, and gleams against Lady Liberty, I see you. I went to see a film yesterday, and I turned in my seat, to see your reaction, but of course, that seat was empty. You haunt me like a ghost, or more appropriately, you follow me like a guardian angel. You no longer need to write to remind me of your prayers for me, I feel them, sincere, in the air I breathe. And since it seems you are always with me, I cannot let you relegate me to the confines of New York, I must follow you around the shrine too, and lend you support in your endless duties.

I will tell you that I am well, and Makkachin is well. I can tell though, that she misses you dearly.

Always yours,  
Victor

My Dear Victor,

I have been travelling lately, inspecting rebuilding efforts, and visiting shrines. The motion of my person means I have more time to myself; only so many meetings can be fit into a train carriage, and when I wish it, I can complain of a headache, and retreat to my personal car with my new stationary set. I purchased this one in Nagano, with the intent of using it for you alone. I remember you were often delighted by the cherry blossoms at the shrine, and this stationary presses the petals into the paper, and uses the flowers as dye. In this way I have kept you with me, even outside the shrine, as I travel.

What film did you see? Perhaps if you tell me, I might watch it, and then tell you what I think. I recently attended the screening of the newest film by Kurosawa Akira-san, who has some popularity in the west. The film is called 生きる( _Ikiru)_ ; perhaps you can see it in New York. It moved me greatly, for I too am living a short, mortal life, hoping to make things, hoping to leave things better than I found them. It gave me much to ponder on, and much to hope for. I am pleased, too, to see Kurosawa-san recognized outside of our home country, it is a relief to see our culture celebrated, instead of derided. This friendly sharing of our lives with the wider world will only help us make our place in it.

It is Makka's favourite season, in New York. I think how happy she must be, in the cooler breezes, how joyous in her every movement. I picture her with you, walking through your neighbourhood, stopping to buy the paper at the deli on the corner. But then I also imagine her here, curled over my feet, keeping them warm as our train softly clacks it's way to our destination. She must know, I miss her dearly too. Keep company with each other, and do not grow lonely. You are both always in my thoughts.

Yours,  
Yuuri

Dear Yuuri,

Thank you for your parcel, it arrived just in time for my birthday. I have spent the holiday fortified against the snow, warm on my sofa with cups of your delicate tea, and reading the book you sent. I find The Tale of Genji as marvelous as you suggested it would be. The prince is described as unbelievably handsome, so I picture him with your face.

I know you must be busy, with the season, and the upcoming new year. Ms. Yuuko told me that you dance at the turning of the year, a beautiful tradition. I will think of it, as I count down 1953. Don't stretch yourself too thin; take time with your family, rest. Write to me only after you have, I will know if you ignore my advice. I am going up to Washington for some meetings, and I don't expect a response until well after I am back.

Happy New Year, Yuuri.  
Victor

* * *

Victor should have been more worried when they started the meeting by turning on a tape recorder. But he hadn't come unprepared, he had one running in his pocket too.

"Are you suggesting," he said carefully, cigarette balanced between his fingers, "that I am a spy?"

"Mr. Nikiforov, you must understand that we are merely documenting omissions in your original landing papers. We are not suggesting anything."

The man interviewing him, a Mr. Nelson, was pale, fair, and young, probably too young to have served in the war. He kept pushing his spectacles up his long nose, each time by the bridge in the centre, forcing Victor to recall that Yuuri always pushed his up by pressing a slender finger to the right corner. He coughed delicately at the smoke from Victor's cigarette, eyeing the ashtray meaningfully. Victor took a long drag and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling.

"Now then, you were never discharged from the Soviet Air Force, is that true?"

"I'm certain I was very dishonourably so," Victor said, "if it hasn't been widely reported that I am dead. You'll notice in my file that I was granted political asylum to the United States, prior to my arriving here."

Mr. Nelson sniffed, and pushed his glasses up again. "Yes, well." He said calmly. "There are quite a few irregularities in the initial debrief, conducted as it was, in the field in Germany…"

"I was not in the best shape when I was found by the 8th Infantry division, but their General Canham was very thorough in his report."

"You had recently escaped from Wöbbelin."

Victor took another long drag of his cigarette, and braced himself for Mr. Nelson to ask a question.

"You say in your testimony, that you believed you were captured on purpose, that, acting on orders from Moscow, your unit abandoned you to the Nazis?"

"I believe there are documented, unencrypted orders to that effect, supplied by the British government as part of my application for citizenship."

"You must understand, that is seems a little suspicious? Your own government, selling you out. And then your well timed escape, right into the encroaching American advance…"

"You can't be serious," Victor laughed, incredulous and angry. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, as an outlet for his fury. "You can't be serious, to think that I would willingly volunteer to be captured, on the off chance I might run into some Americans later? America hadn't even joined the war yet!"

"I can assure you, Mr. Nikiforov, that I have encountered far more bizarre schemes from your countrymen. Again, we are merely documenting omissions-"

"Did you serve, Mr. Nelson?"

"No," he sniffed. "No."

"Have you ever seen the camps? Or read about them?"

"Mr. Nikiforov, I must ask you to please modulate your voice-"

"If you had, you would know what a farce of a suggestion this is." Victor laughed again, almost hysterical. "Do you know what they did to me in there? The beatings and the starving, the taunting and the touching… I was eighteen years old. I would have much rather had Stalin shoot me to death; I begged for it often enough." He pressed his hands to his face, trying to suppress his manic laughter. "And you think I might have done it on purpose?!"

"Jesus. Just… get a hold of yourself, sir."

"You're mad," Victor gasped. He wiped the corners of his eyes with his fingers. "This is some kind of cruel joke. I did not willingly allow myself to be tortured by the Nazis on orders from Moscow. Do you have any other questions, or can I go?"

Mr. Nelson's face was rather red, he looked slightly horrified. At Victor's question, he gave himself a little shake, clearing his throat, and looking down at the file in front of him.

"Why don't you tell me about your relationship with the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ of Japan."

Victor straightened, every muscle in his body gone taut. He reached for another cigarette. "I have written several articles about him."

"And these? Are these articles?" Mr. Nelson pushed several photos across the table; his more recent correspondence with Yuuri rendered impersonal in black and white.

"We are friends," Victor amended, setting his lighter on the table and taking a drag on his fresh cigarette. "I met him in 1950. We write to each other."

"His Holiness is an important political figure."

Victor watched Mr. Nelson over the table, and said nothing, puffing on his cigarette. Finally, Mr. Nelson sighed.

"Don't leave the country, Mr. Nikiforov, until you receive a clearance letter from the HUAC."

* * *

My Dear Victor,

Happy New Year, and blessings for 1954. This is a special postcard we send in Japan, called a 年賀状 ( _nengajou_ ) to send good wishes for the upcoming year to those in our hearts who are far away. May it find you well!

Yours,  
Yuuri

My Dear Victor,

It has been several weeks since I last sent your card, but I find myself impatient to wait for your return letter. The cherry blossoms are once again in bloom at the shrine, reminding me of you. With you so close to my mind's eye, I found myself reaching for my stationary. How are you, and how was Washington?

I am going south soon, to the island of Kyushu. It will be the first time I have returned there, since it was discovered that I was the _Kuninotokotachi_. I will be accompanying my parents to our ancestral home in Hasetsu, where they will now remain with my sister, and then continuing south, to Nagasaki. Progress to rebuild there is slow, and I am needed. The Americans forbid me, before I left, from visiting either Nagasaki or Hiroshima, but I finally have the ability to go. I confess I have written to you now, because I need the comfort of knowing you will think of me while I am there. There are troubling reports of the health of the citizens, and I need to see for myself, but I am also afraid. Imagine me brave, and I know I will be. Forgive me for placing this burden on you.

I will wait to write again when I have returned, and received your letter. Please tell Makkachin I miss her.

Yours,  
Yuuri

My Dear Victor,

I am writing to you from my room in Ishaya. I could not wait, forgive me. Today I walked through rubble still uncleared, through buildings blackened and melted. I whispered blessings over the burned bodies of my people. I am not enough… I was here, home, when these bombs fell. I could not spare them from this pain. I don't know what to do.

I know what I must do. I will approve more building contracts, send rice and medical supplies, teachers and doctors and scientists. I will dance in the shrine tomorrow, unwatched except for the accusing eyes of the _kami_ , who abandoned this land for our folly. I will encourage them to forgive us, and enlighten us again. I will pray. For these people, for the people of Hiroshima, and all the people of my home. I will raise my voice against this act of violence; no others should ever suffer this terribleness. I will pray for you, and hope you think of me.

I miss Makka so terribly tonight.  
Yuuri

My Dear Victor,

Please forgive me if my last letter startled you, or any of my letters. I have been so frank in our correspondence, without thinking that perhaps this was uncomfortable. I wish to assure you that I am of stronger mind and constitution now, that I am home again at the shrine, and putting my plans into action. I have been invited once again to speak at the United Nations this coming fall, and I am determined to make both the Americans and the Soviets see reason regarding their growing arsenal of nuclear weapons. We must curb our enthusiasm for destruction, or we will lose our humanity altogether. I have been repeatedly denied by both countries in my efforts to organize aid for Korea, and I confess I grow tired of them both. We cannot rule without compassion, we cannot see the citizens of this world as other from ourselves. I am weary, but newly determined.

My trip was not all so dynamic; I enjoyed several peaceful, and I promise, restful days in Hasetsu, at the hot spring where I was born. I have included several photos for you, so that you might see it. My family sends you their well wishes, as I send mine.

Yours,  
Yuuri

Dear Victor,

It has been so long since I have heard from you. Christophe tells me he also has not had a letter from you for some time. Please write one of us soon, if you are able. 

May I see you when I am in New York? I would like, once again, to request your services from the New York Times, but only if it is amenable to you. I would like to eat kotleti again, and take Makkachin for a walk, I miss her more and more every day.

You will tell me, won't you, if something I have done has upset you? I know friendship with me cannot be easy, given my many weaknesses, and the strangeness of my life. I am keen to fix them, however, and await your response.

Yuuri

Victor,

I will be leaving for America in two weeks. This letter should reach you by then, and I have included below the information for my hotel. I will not presume to bother you at your home, but please, I wish very much to see you. Ask for Nishigori-san when you come, and he will find me. Please come at any time that is convenient, I will endeavour not to keep you waiting for me for longer than half an hour. Send a note, if that is too long to wait.

Please Victor, I just have to know you are all right.

Yuuri

* * *

When Yuri came home, he followed Victor noiselessly out onto the fire escape of his grandfather’s apartment, the old man turning the radio dial for static, complaining loudly at the connection, and then spinning both the dial and the volume back, with the practised ease that only came from having lived in the Soviet Union. The baseball game filled the apartment with noise, and covered any other sounds. Mrs. Medieros was going to complain and start thudding on the ceiling of her apartment over it, but hopefully not before their conversation was over. They hadn't determined yet, if the Plisetsky apartment had been bugged like Victor's was, if the person assigned to listen in on their phone calls was just quieter, or less brazen, than the one Victor heard breathing on the line before he started to dial.

Yuri's smart suit looked rumpled, and he hadn't removed his press badge from his hat. He accepted the cigarette Victor offered him, holding it lit between his fingers. Yura didn't smoke, but if anyone walked down the alley, they'd just see two men attempting to keep the stench of nicotine out of their sofa cushions.

"How did it go," Victor asked softly. It had been an awful risk, for Yura to attend the UN Dignitaries press conference, but it was all Victor had.

"I didn't speak to him, but he's so fucking smart, Victor. That young one who always follows him around, Minami? He spilled cold tea all over me, dragged me into a side room, and then asked immediately about you. I told him exactly what you said; he'll tell the _Kuninotokotachi_."

Victor dragged a hand through his hair in relief. "Good," he sighed. "That's good."

He didn't have enough words for the very specific fear he'd felt, each time a pale pink envelope appeared in his mailbox, one side discretely slit open, and then taped back together. Yuuri's last letter had made him desperate enough to enlist Yura's help, desperate enough to drag kind Nikolai into something that could have gotten both the senior and junior Plisetsky into heaps of trouble. 

"How did he look?" 

Yura shrugged. "Like a Japanese priest?" He slid something out of his sleeve with a grimace. "Minami said to tell you to keep this reservation, and shoved this up my arm."

* * *

Mr. P. A. Chulanont  
Photographer, Free Press

607-733-3427

8pm tomorrow – O'Neal's

* * *

Phichit Chulanont was entirely too cheerful, Victor had thought, given the circumstances of why they were meeting. Victor had brought a letter for Yuuri, and tried to slip it to the photographer during their entree, but he'd discretely shook his head. The pretense of their dinner together was to discuss collaborating on an article for the New Yorker; Phichit had been contracted to do the photographs, and he suggested that the magazine had sent him to try and woo Victor into authoring the accompanying piece. Victor had no idea if it was true. He agreed to check his schedule with his boss, and the conversation drifted to topics typically discussed by two men in a similar line of business when meeting each other for the first time. Phichit was a natural conversationalist, and Victor managed to relax in his presence by the time they'd finished dessert. When the check came, Victor reached for his wallet, but Phichit waved him off, brandishing a credit card.

"We'll let the New Yorker treat us," he smiled, setting the card onto the tray for the waiter to ring through. "Why don't you freshen up first? If you're up for it, there is a very nice cocktail lounge in my hotel."

Victor smiled in response, getting to his feet. The men's room was empty when he entered, save for a large Asian man, who brushed past Victor as he came in. He was washing his hands when the door opened again, and paid it no mind.

" _Biktoru._ "

A startled, hopelessly hopeful noise broke past Victor's lips; he splashed himself with water turning so abruptly, and left the tap on in his haste. Victor forgot himself completely, he crossed the floor and grabbed the 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ , embraced him so fast, the living god squeaked in surprise.

"I'm sorry," Victor breathed into his shoulder. He knew he needed to let Yuuri go, that what he was doing was probably some kind of Shinto sin, but his arms just held Yuuri tighter. "I'm sorry," he said again, and he was, for making Yuuri worry, for hurting him, for touching him now, without permission. For being too Russian and exposing their friendship to the cavalier greed of the American government.

"I never meant... you have to stop writing to me, it's too dangerous-"

"Shh." Yuuri set his hand on the crown of Victor's head, the way he had once done to Christophe, to bless him. His other arm pressed against Victor's back. "It's all right."

They stood in silence like that for a long moment, until Yuuri drew away, taking a step back, his eyes searching Victor's face as he went. His hand slid to the side of Victor's face, and his littlest finger drew softly across the skin beneath Victor's eye.

"You are not sleeping," he accused gently.

Victor shook his head. The _Kuninotokotachi_ looked himself a little tired, but also well-fed, healthy. He was wearing another beautiful western-style suit, and the blue-framed glasses he had worn before, on their day trip around New York, instead of the fancy pair he wore in official photographs.

"I should go back out there," Victor admitted, though it was the last thing he wanted to do, cut short his final meeting with Yuuri. "It will look strange, if I'm in here too long."

"Phichit-kun has received an important call, and had to leave," Yuuri said. His hands clasped Victor's and squeezed once in comfort. "He's left a message for you at the concierge. There is a car waiting, around the corner, and I've sent someone to see to Makkachin. Will you come with me?"

"I can't. Yuuri, you know I can't. You must forget about me."

"No." Yuuri's lips set, and his eyes burned behind his glasses. "A breach of my privacy is a matter of national security, and this treatment of you is intolerable. Please, come back to my hotel with me."

Victor blinked at him, at the fire in his gaze. "I can't," he whispered, almost pleading. "They are watching the Plisetsky's too."

A small smile curled Yuuri's lips. "Yurio and his grandfather are already on their way to the hotel. Nothing is going to happen to them. It is the least I can do, for the messenger who brought me tidings of you."

* * *

JAPANESE PRIEST SLAMS PEACE TALKS AT THE UN

Religious Leader Decries Aid Efforts to Korea as Lacking

By Y. Plisetsky, Free Press, for the New York Times

The typically docile 14th _Kuninotokotachi_ ruffled feathers today in his annual address at the United Nations, calling out both America and her allies for their slowness in mobilizing medical and food supplies to war-torn Korea. Appearing before the assembly in his usual blue _uchikake_ of state, His Holiness put forward a five point plan for assistance, to be implemented in conjunction with the Red Cross. The _Kuninotokotachi_ closed in a similar vein to his speech at the Geneva Conference earlier this year, where he urged the gathered parties to reconsider the use of nuclear weapons.

"It is the very heart of human suffering, and must be checked," his Holiness told the UN. "Only with mutual agreement can we prevent mutual destruction."

While the address received mixed reviews, many leaders were quick to support the Japanese religious head of state, worried that the stockpiling of nuclear weapons by the United States and Soviet Union could create rifts in future diplomacy, most notably in the ongoing struggle for Vietnam…

_See Arms Race, page A34_

* * *

Dearest Yuuri,

I am writing to you, as you will see, from my new apartment. Of the options you offered, I think this one was your favourite, and I see why. The sun rises every morning to gild the river in gold in my bedroom window, and from my balcony I have been watching the trees in the park begin to bud. It is a sunny, light-filled space, airy and open, the way your shrine had seemed to me. I wonder if you blessed it for me, I have yet to experience a day of sadness or weariness within its walls. The Plisetsky's as well, are enjoying the building, though Nikolai found the doorman an unusual extravagance. He keeps bringing the poor man food, but what started as a confused tolerance has grown into a firm friendship. Yura tells me he has been writing to you, so perhaps you are informed of this already.

It's taken me so long to write to you. I have no good excuse, other than perhaps my own fear. I was raised in a strict political environment, and I worried for you. I still worry for you. It took me a long time to understand that I have a friend of unlimited bravery, of boundless courage. I know you so well, in these letters, that I forgot, I suppose, that you are also a God on earth, not to be trifled with by mere bureaucratic clerks. I suppose too, that it is difficult for me to reconcile the idea that I might hold an importance for you that would cause you to do so much to help me. I don't know why I doubted you, you who do so much, for so many. You see a problem and you solve it, and the world stands in awe. I suspect it's taken me this long, to shake off that awe myself.

Work is going well. I am no longer completely employed by the New York Times, but I work with them often enough, in my role at the Free Press. Now that I am my own boss, and free to pursue stories of interest to me instead of those handed down by editors, I enjoy my work much more. I will never be sorry for the years I spent at the Times, but it is nice to be in charge of my own destiny. I have several projects ongoing, and hope to have a large piece published this year. I will send it on when I do, to my favourite fan.

Please give my regards to Minami, Nishigori, Ms. Yukko, and the rest of your family. Makka sends you her love.

Yours again,  
Victor, 

My Dearest Victor,

Thank you for your letter. I can't tell you the happiness I felt, seeing the blue envelope in my correspondence. The day seems brighter, for having received it.

I am so pleased your new accommodations suit you; they were my favorite. I like to think of you, at the top of that tall building, back amongst the clouds where you belong. You never need apologize to me for anything at all, least of all something not your fault. I shall always be here, to help you.

I look forward to your new work, as I do everything you write. I hope someday, you might be able to write about the events of the past year, freely as a man should, unobstructed by censure or fear. The freedom of the press is tantamount to a democratic society, and crucial to fostering a global understanding. I am glad you have found yourself an unhindered place. I think, freed as you are, that we will see some of your greatest work.

I am a little melancholic today, which your letter has helped to bear. It is nothing specific, just my general sort of weaknesses rearing themselves as they do. I suspect I will not remain in this mood for too much longer, soon, there will be an addition to my inner court. Yuuko-chan is due very soon to give birth, and we are all in anticipation of the new arrival. I have been praying extensively, but I know, deep in my gut, that this will be an auspicious and fortunate birth. A blessing is coming, and I am looking forward to it.

Yours always,  
Yuuri

My Dearest Yuuri,

I do not like to hear of your being down, though I hope you will always tell me when you are. In that way, I might remind you that you are not weak, and no one thinks so of you. Please remember, in your quiet moods, that across the ocean (you might pick either) a man and a very exuberant poodle believe in you and wish you well. You are not alone, and you have only to summon the image of me wandering the shrine to remember.

This letter is a little thicker than my standard blue envelope; I mentioned in my last letter that I hoped to have published a larger work. This is the very first copy, forwarded to me by my editor. It is my first foray into fiction, though, some of it is far from fictional in my experience. It's a story about fear, and endurance, and then resilience and hope. You once told me I did not have to forgive, but it is thanks to you, that I am learning how. I hope you do not mind the dedication; the truth is I would not have written it without you. It is a small volume, but my editor thinks it will do well. In any case, I really only care about the opinion of one person in particular.

I read in the paper about Ms. Yuuko's triplets; I can scarcely believe a woman so small produced three such hale, hearty little girls! They are beautiful, and surely, a blessing like you were hoping. Please give her and Nishigori my heartfelt congratulations! I like to think about you, surrounded by three tiny babies. I hope they bring you joy. 

With all my belief in you,  
Victor

* * *

At Journey's End

A Novel By Victor Nikiforov

For You,  
in whose socks I walked, and who walked in mine in turn  
a thousand blessings, and the touch of your hand

* * *

My Dear, 

Victor, have you any idea of what you've done? I think, now that you are the New York Times Best Seller, you must. Your book is beautiful, Victor. It made me laugh, made me cry; it ran me through such a gamut of emotion I needed to take a long walk afterwards, to properly collect myself. It dwells within me, I feel as though a piece of your soul has taken up residence inside me, and I treasure it. Now, when I miss you, I will have this other, tangible thing, stronger than memory. I have already had Minami-san buy me another copy. I could not bear to mark up the one you sent, but I wanted to note those pieces which spoke to me, to ask thoughtful questions. I've enclosed it, after copying my annotations into a third volume. Yurio tells me that you will be going on a book tour, send me lots of photographs of everywhere you go, so that I might pretend I was with you.

Work here goes ever on and on, there is always a shrine to purify, a rite to complete. I am withdrawing myself, more and more, from political life. I think this for the best; while it is important for me to ensure the happiness of my people, I find great content in allowing them to govern themselves. It leaves me more time for my humanitarian work, and for my own reflection and study. I will soon be travelling to India, where I am to meet the Dalai Lama. Our situations, though not the same, were similar, and it is my hope to help him as best I can. I will document my time there for you in my next letter, for now, please be satisfied with one photo only, of me holding Yuuko-chan's triplets. It was a miracle they remained still long enough to take it.

I wish I had more to write to you, about how moved I have been by your book. Perhaps you will read my markings and understand. I feel as though I have been asleep, and woken from a long dream. Sometimes, in evening meditation or the fresh silence of my morning thoughts, I think about your hand keeping me from falling into the Hudson River, about the way it felt to wear your clothes. I dwell on the immediacy of your embrace, and how fulfilling it was, to be able to return it. I am so rarely touched by anyone, but you have never hesitated to. I fear I am not making any sense, I hardly know myself. I only wish to say that I think of you, that I hope for you, and that I pray for you, more than anyone else. You are at the forefront, and I cannot look away; I don't have a word for this emotion, but I have decided to call it 愛.

With all my heart,  
Yuuri

My Dearest,

I saw today, a clip of you on the news. There you were, in your splendid embroidered blue, and your official glasses, your hair combed carefully back from your forehead. You were walking arm-in-arm with the Dalai Lama through his compound, and I believe Minami was once again protecting you with an umbrella. His Holiness is shorter than you, and his crimson and ochre robes were a perfect counterpoint to your _uchikake._ A striking picture, one that has been on television and in the paper; I would be delighted to see you so often, but each time I see it, my stomach twists. You look so happy, and smile so fondly. Is it foolish for me to be jealous? It must be, when I am in possession of your last letter, and the book you have so intelligently annotated and sent back to me. But I can't help but think how good it must have been for you, to make the acquaintance of one who is so like you, who can understand everything about you far better than I can, simply by way of shared experience. I do not begrudge you this at all; I wish only that I could have been the one to walk behind you, and perhaps held the umbrella.

Would it scare you to know that I cannot look away from you, either? I have been travelling all over America on my book tour, diligently photographing my whereabouts (as you will find, enclosed), but the photographs are empty of the person I wish to share it with. I think of you in another suit, how you wear them so well, and in your blue glasses which I like so much, and how I might take your hand to bring your attention to a beautiful sunset or an impressive bit of landscape. How perhaps the wind might stir your loose hair into your eyes, giving me the pleasure of sweeping it back for you. I think of how you touch the side of your glasses, how, without wide sleeves, you fidget for the closest bit of fabric. I think of your smile and your eyes, and I long for you. You have consumed me, in a way perhaps that you did not mean.

I thought to add my own markings to your book, but found myself selfishly wishing to speak over them with you in person. It is little of me, and I hope you will forgive it. My editor is urging me to plan a European book tour; I have no taste for it, I want only to be in one place in particular. I am a fool, and your fondest, deepest, most devoted friend.

With all my love,  
Victor

My dearest one,

How you make me brave. Will you come, and visit me? If I ask it, will you come here and speak to me about all the ways I have misread your brilliant book? The weather here will soon turn rainy, and I need someone to hold my umbrella. You are indeed a fool, to think I'd want anyone else. If you wish it, I will make arrangements; you might tell your editor that from here, you will embark upon your tour. If you need it, I will say to my Minister of Culture that I should like to be interviewed by the foreign press, who are always looking to speak with me. I will do anything as it's needed, so long as you will say you'll come, and sit beside me for a time. 

With everything,  
Yuuri

* * *

The Western Union Telegraph Company  
Incorporated  
23,000 Offices in America, Cable Service to Overseas

Received at

Kyoto, For immediate attention to his Holiness

I WILL

BH

* * *

An Evening with His Holiness, the 14th Kuninokatchi, Sonkaizan-sama

Hosted by his friend, New York Times Best-selling Author, and Pulitzer Prize Winning Journalist, Victor Nikiforov

Thursday March 18th, 1982  
Javits Centre, NY

Tickets SOLD OUT

* * *

"Is everyone comfortable?" Victor tapped his microphone. "Is this on, can you all hear me?"

A soft murmur of laughter rumbled in the audience, backed by braver calls of "Yes!"

"Oh good!" Victor clapped his hands twice. "Now then, everyone settle down please! Thank you, thanks. We will bring _Sonzaikan-sama_ out in a moment, but you all have to be quiet. Big crowds make him nervous, you know, and there are so many of you! Is everyone all right, sitting in the aisle?"

A few more rumbles, and Victor deemed it satisfactory. He pressed a single finger to his lips, reminding the crowd to quiet. "Okay," he whispered into his microphone, which was the queue backstage for Minami. At stage left there was a brief twitch of the curtain, and then there Yuuri stood, elegant as always in his _uchikake_ of state, embroidered with traditional cranes and pines. It was cold in the theatre and Victor had buttoned a sweater vest beneath his outer-most layer before Minami helped Yuuri put it on. His smile was a little strained, signs of his nerves, so Victor made his own wide and encouraging. If Yuuri could face down Reagan on his AIDS inaction, if he could stand before the leaders of the west, accepting his Nobel Peace Prize, while still calling them out on their holding of nuclear weapons, he could certainly do this.

The moment Yuuri appeared onstage, he was greeted by thunderous applause; he flinched a little, gripping the microphone in his hand with white knuckles. All these years, and he was still unused to the attention of a Western Audience. In Japan, everyone at least had the decency to stand in awed quiet in his presence.

"Okay everyone, please, please quiet down,” Victor reminded the audience. The applause tapered off to a manageable level, allowing Yuuri to cross the stage to the little raised platform upon which Victor waited in an armchair. Yuuri stepped out of his zori and up into his slippers, helpfully waiting for him at the edge. They were blue and embroidered with little poodles; Victor was currently sporting his matching purple pair, and he crossed one leg over the other to draw attention to the fact as Yuuri sat down in the chair opposite him after a quick bow to his audience.

"Hello," he said quietly into his microphone, voice musical and slightly accented.

"Good evening, Your Holiness," Victor smiled. "Are you comfortable?"

"Ah, is there water?"

"Yes dear, there's some tea here on this table between us. Would you like some?"

"Mm." Yuuri looked out over the audience as Victor poured. "Oh! Are there people sitting on the stairs?"

"There are, you're very popular."

"Oh but, there's all this space, here at the front? Could…" Yuuri looked into the wings, searching for their event manager. "Bergman-san, could they come and sit down here?" She gave him a fretful motion that could have been a yes, and also could have meant _Absolutely not, that is a fire hazard_. Yuuri climbed to his feet, that little fire in his eyes. "Yes, please, everyone on the stairs, come up to the front, come up please. Orderly, don't push!"

The command had its desired effect, no one wanted to be the one to make a living god angry. Once people had settled on the floor on their jackets, Yuuri sat down again. "There," he smiled. "Now everyone can be comfortable."

Victor handed him his tea with an indulgent nod. "Now I'm going to give them all a brief introduction about you," he explained.

"Do we need one?" Yuuri's eyebrow arched over the blue frame of his glasses. The audience laughed, and Victor with them.

"That's true, you are famous, after all. Do you want to tell them about me?"

"You're a very talented author, and a respected journalist. You've been my friend since oh… 1950?"

"Yes, we've been friends for a good long time, haven’t we? Thirty-two years. And yet, we look so young!"

Yuuri laughed at that; in his case, it was true. Other than the salt-and-pepper hair at his temples and the deepening of the creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, Yuuri still looked the way he had in his thirties. Victor was only four years older, but his skin was marked with age-freckles, his hair truly white, and he wore glasses all the time now too. For all Victor fretted about it though, Yuuri did not seem to mind.

"We met in Italy," Yuuri continued, "when you interviewed me for the New York Times."

"I'm going to interview you now, are you ready?"

Yuuri sat up a little straighter, setting his teacup on the table between them. He brought his microphone up to his lips and gave Victor a small, anticipatory smile, which had another rumble of laughter passing through the audience.

_Such a natural_ , Victor thought, as he pushed up his glasses to peer at his notes. Yuuri had been very hesitant to do this event, until Victor offered to be the one to lead the discussion for him. As they went deeper into the interview, Yuuri relaxed more, leaning more comfortably into his chair, and looking at the audience when speaking, instead of pretending they weren't there. Yuuri was an exceptional public speaker, but his real strength lay in his ability to tell a profound story, to turn a small event in his life into something large and meaningful. He held the audience captive, completely himself. It was harder for Victor, he had to fight the urge to lean forwards, to touch Yuuri's wrist or elbow. He was pushing it already, with the vague endearments.

"And so, that is why I continue this work," Yuuri was saying. "When I was a young man, I had the opportunity to go outside of what I knew, and to understand that the issues confronting the people I was tasked with caring for were also confronting everyone else. That we are all not so different, and that with a little understanding, we might all come together, and better solve these problems. It's as relevant today as it was then, and I still strive for that."

Victor gave him a little smile. "We're going to open the floor for audience questions, now, okay?"

"Mm." Yuuri picked up his tea and took a long sip. "I have been speaking too much?"

"No, no," Victor laughed. "I've been speaking too much dear, they still want to hear you."

The first three people asked Yuuri for a blessing, and so before the fourth question he stood and conferred one over everyone, sing-songing it over the crowd with practised ease. The woman who had lined up for the fourth question had sat down while he did it, revealing a small Japanese girl and her father, who picked her up and held her towards the microphone.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," she whispered shyly, twirling one of her dark pigtails around her little fingers.

" _Hai_ ," he smiled gently. Yuuri was masterful with little children. " _Kiite iru_."

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ ," she said again, a little louder, " _Ie ni petto o katte imasu ka_?"

"Ah, _hai_!" Yuuri smiled wider. "Do you speak English?" When the little girl nodded shyly, Yuuri gave her a proud look. "She would like to know if I have a pet, and I do! A dog, named Vicchan. He's a miniature poodle."

The next in line was a young man, college aged. He wore a corduroy jacket with a "Brick in the Wall" button pinned to it.

" _Sonzaikan-sama_ " he bowed stiffly, the way Western people often did in Yuuri's presence. "Sometimes it feels very hopeless, to change anything. How do you stay motivated?"

"Ah. Thank you, that is a very deep and important question." Yuuri tapped his cheek in thought, while the young man preened over his praise, looking lost and a little dazzled. _Get in line_ , Victor thought with a little smile.

"What I find most important, is a conviction of self," Yuuri continued. "What I mean is, there are days where it feels like nothing changes, but this is because progress cannot be measured in days. You have to celebrate each small achievement, and be contented to know it will add up to a larger whole. You have to understand that there are others like you, each moving in their small daily ways, which are also building towards your goal. In this way, there will be days of quiet, where it seems like we stand still, but the world is turning. Remember, we never cease to move."

The next person to ask a question was a middle-aged woman, her hair done perfectly, and her make-up immaculate. Victor would have admired her dedication to her appearance if the very large cross she was wearing and the glint in her eyes didn't give him such a bad feeling.

"I just wanted to ask you about recent statements you've made in the papers," she said crisply, lips pinched down. "You told the president that he ought to do something about that disease; but it's wrong, homosexuality-"

"I don't understand," Yuuri said.

"Perhaps you'd ask a different question," Victor began, with his heart beating in his throat, but the woman cut right over him.

"Homosexuality." She repeated, speaking slower as though Yuuri didn't have a far superior command of the English language. "When two men lie together; it's a sin."

"I understand the word," Yuuri said slowly, his eyes turning to two hard black stones. "I do not understand why it is wrong."

"I…"

Yuuri tilted his head to the side, a considering stare that had once made Margret Thatcher flinch. "I do not have a doctrine, or a parable that will help you. All I can say is that a place where love exists is a place where hatred cannot. My faith is a secular one, it does not perpetuate from adherence to rules, only enduring belief. There is no reason for me to think of any type of love as wrong."

The woman stared at him wide-eyed, her face going red. Victor hoped it was over embarrassment, but had a sinking suspicion it was anger. Yuuri pressed his lips together with a little sigh.

"This is not the question you wish to ask me," he said, and Victor shivered with the frisson of remembrance. He had been lost, once, and asking a holy man the wrong sort of questions. He'd been existing, waiting to be found, waiting to be the object of that penetrating, gentle gaze. Perhaps this was the reason Yuuri was called _Sonzaikan_ by his followers, after all, it had been Yuuri's presence that had changed him, shaped him, made him brave enough to shed everything that had held him back, and learn to see the very truth of his own self. He looked at Yuuri with wonder, at his cherished profile and wise eyes.

"When you are ready to ask it," Yuuri added calmly, with his boundless patience and grace, "I will try to answer you. But for now, I must ask you to please sit."

Yuuri looked at him then, hesitant and a little unsure of whatever he saw on Victor's face. His microphone ruffled softly as he set it in his lap. "Victor," he whispered.

Victor gave him a smile that was a little too soft, probably too fond. Later that evening, he would put a note on Yuuri's pillow, for him to find while Victor was in the hotel bathroom, brushing his teeth.

* * *

_My darling,_

_Everyday, you make me more._

_All my love,_

_Victor_


End file.
